Abby "Strange Days"

Saturday - 5:15 PM Halloween night

The party is busy without being packed, loud enough that nobody has to worry about filling every silence. Nathan stands beside you with a drink in one hand, halfway through telling you something about work.

Nathan: "...and then he looks me dead in the eye and asks if I can have it finished by Monday. Like that's somehow gonna create another eight hours in the fucking day."

He takes a drink.

Nathan: "So obviously I told him—"

Nathan stops.

Not pauses. Stops.

His attention shifts past you toward the front of the house. His eyebrows lift, his eyes widen slightly, and whatever complaint he was about to finish disappears completely.

You follow his gaze.

Abby has just walked through the front door.

For half a second, the sight doesn't quite reconcile with the Abby you know.

The same woman you've seen countless times through Dean's little orbit of dinners, movie nights, game nights, and casual hangouts—the woman usually half-hidden inside a loose sweater or oversized hoodie—is crossing the room in a skin-tight, floor-length dress of near-black burgundy. The smooth opaque fabric hugs her soft-curvy figure, a dramatically plunging neckline exposes far more than you've ever seen from Abby, and high slits break the long skirt around her legs. Matching dark burgundy sleeves fit closely along her arms, ending in sharp triangular points across the backs of her hands, while a small black bat pendant rests against her upper chest. Her dark-red hair and lighter red highlights complete the unmistakable Thorn look.

She hasn't seen you.

In fact, Abby seems intensely occupied with avoiding everyone.

Her eyes move around the room without lingering on anyone for long. Her shoulders are held a little too carefully, her arms stay close to herself, and every few steps seem to require another tiny act of commitment. She keeps moving along the outside of the room rather than toward its center.

Nathan glances at you, apparently noticing that you recognize her.

Nathan, quietly: "You know her?"

Abby keeps coming closer.

Not because she's approaching either of you.

She's spotted the relatively empty stretch of wall near where you're standing and is making a determined little migration toward it—the natural habitat of someone who has already exhausted most of her social courage simply by walking through the front door.

Ten feet.

Five.

Three.

Then Abby finally looks up.

Her eyes land on you.

She stops dead.

Recognition hits all at once. Her eyes widen, her shoulders jump, and one hand flies over her mouth.

For one completely silent second, Abby just stares.

Then awareness catches up with shock.

Her gaze flicks downward toward herself.

The hand covering her mouth drops immediately to join the other across the plunging front of her costume, both hands instinctively covering her cleavage as her shoulders pull inward.

Color rushes into her cheeks.

And then somehow gets worse.

Because underneath the mortification, her heart gives one tiny, traitorous skip at the realization that you're seeing her like this.

Abby absolutely does not examine that.

She looks away. Back at you. Down again. Her fingers shift uselessly against the fabric as though she might somehow invent several additional square feet of it through force of will.

Eventually, she realizes that continuing to stand silently three feet away from you is probably not improving the situation.

Abby opens her mouth.

Nothing.

She takes the smallest breath.

Abby: "H-hi."

Her voice comes out slightly more broken than she intended. Abby closes her eyes for barely a moment, collecting herself, then tries again.

Abby: "Hi. Sorry. I just—"

She stops herself before the explanation can become a full-scale nervous ramble. Barely.

Her hands remain firmly over the neckline of the costume.

Abby looks at you again, visibly searching for literally any subject that is not Abby, Abby's costume, or why Abby is currently dressed like this.

Her eyes flick briefly over what you're wearing.

There.

Safe subject.

Probably.

Abby: "What are you supposed to be?"