The thirty-third annual convention for the Lefthand Metro Worm Cosplayers Club was, not surprisingly, ruined by drama. Helk, the convention committee chair, was a micromanager, which meant that they weren’t allowing anyone else to do anything. And that meant nothing got done. Including arrangements with the venue they’d been working with for the past twenty years. When the time came to start arranging rooms, it turned out that Helk hadn’t been in touch with their hotel liaison—and now the hotel was completely booked with other events. They had nowhere to hold the masquerade, and nowhere for guests to stay.

So then there was a secret vote to depose Helk as concom chair, which led to further drama that was so vast and pyrotechnic that it rocked all of fandom. Or at least, all of worm fandom, which was what mattered. The rest of the concom was left scrambling to book a hotel with an auditorium for the masquerade, while also finding enough volunteers to run programming and costume tutorials.

And now, with less than a month before the con, there is still no venue. Niobium sent the text while flattening their tail into a paddle and bobbing their purplish-brown head, signifying chaos. Four other members of the concom read the text and bobbed their heads too. Gretel writhed in sympathy, forming a spring shape with their whole body, which was thick and pink, growing darker as it approached their scarlet head.

The concom was holding this last-ditch meeting in an elaborately carved planter full of soft, rich soil with roots and water-cured leaves, reserved for worm customers at Lucy’s Hash Joint. It was one of the few restaurants in Lefthand that served invertebrates, offering them a range of comfortably damp boxes around an outdoor patio full of hominins, cats, and a few ungulates among other assorted people.

For a while, they sat in awkward silence. But Gretel wanted to face facts. They sent: I’m starting to think we should just tell the club that we’re going on hiatus for a year and we’ll regroup next year with a new concom.

Like every person grown on this planet, Gretel’s brain contained a sender, interoperable with the most common devices and language groups. The worm’s voice could be heard, or at least read, though their body lacked the physiology for speech as defined by H. sapiens. Currently the sender was set to private group chat mode.

Elbow, the concom treasurer, joined the chat. I didn’t want to talk about this on the mailing list, but I’ll be honest. Helk screwed us on credits. They gave the hotel a non-refundable deposit before the whole…everything. The worm rippled, indicating the interpersonal communication meltdown that they all wanted to forget. Even if we had enough to reserve all the rooms we’d need, the only two venues in town that will host worms and cosplayers are already sold out.

If we go on hiatus, do you think we’ll lose even more members? Niobium asked, writhing mournfully. I love this con. Plus, Gretel and I are almost done with one of our costumes.

Gretel had been involved with this con, in one way or another, for exactly eleven years and sixty days. Their memory of the date was so precise because it was also when they met Niobium, and struck up a conversation with them which had pretty much never ended.

We could try for another set of dates, or just rent out a venue for one night and do the masquerade. As they sent, Gretel plunged their rosy head into the soil, a gesture that suggested safe haven.

Several members of the concom were sending back when an obsidian black cat padded onto the patio, her glossy fur set off by a jacket in red felt with gold piping. Perched between her ears was a tall bowler hat ringed with beadwork lightning bolts. With a jolt, Gretel realized the cat was dressed as Alacrum from the recent reboot of the Red Horn Saga.

Addressing anyone on the open channel at Lucy’s Hash Joint, the cat sent: Anyone want a flier for the cosplay contest at THE TONGUE FORKS in two weeks? It’s going to be legendary!

A few of the hominins glanced over at the cat, but nobody gestured for more data.

That’s a great Alacrum costume! Niobium replied publicly. Did you make it yourself?

Of course, Niobium spoke up. Unlike most worms, who avoided calling attention to themselves, Niobium never seemed to notice the stares and acid comments that followed worms around. Lefthand was a tourist town, and worms were not people on most planets. That added up to a lot of drunken commentary from randos who thought worms were no better than snot.

Gretel felt a sagging in her abdomen as the cat’s tail flared with surprise. Even if this cosplayer was a local, she might never have met a worm—especially one who addressed her like a peer. But they need not have worried. When the cat turned to face them, jacket buckles flashing in the sun, her tail smoothed down.

Didn’t see you there, friends! I actually thought those boxes were planters, which shows how much I know.

Niobium ducked their head. Admittedly there isn’t much to interest a cat in this soil.

You are the first people to recognize my outfit this afternoon, so there is definitely something of interest! Do you want a flier? I’m Riordan, by the way.

A file icon hovered at the end of Riordan’s message, blinking sadly, waiting to be grabbed.

Hi Riordan! I’m Niobium, and this is actually a meeting of the Lefthand Metro Worm Cosplayers Club Convention Committee.

Nobody else said anything, but they all opened the flier.

THE TONGUE FORKS PRESENTS…
COSPLAY NITE!!! THE CATEGORY IS MYTHOS!
Show us your divinity! Come as gods, demigods, tricksters, heroes, and villains!
Win prizes! Dance to the beats of DJ Caterwaul and MC Munch!
2 drink min * Doors at 7, show at 8

Meanwhile, Riordan was practically dancing. What? Amazing! We need more actual cosplayers! Can you please invite your club? I’m worried that it’s all going to be people who rented a cape at the store, or put a silly hat on their head. My friends and I are really trying to make this a regular cosplay event, with a competitive contest and everything. Like at a real con. You know what I mean?

At last, Gretel replied, feeling wistful. Yes, we know. You mean a masquerade. The best part of any con.

The cat spun in a circle, ending on a jump. YES! A MASQUERADE!

Gretel was starting to like this Riordan person, with her unabashed silliness. Elbow swayed in thought. That could be…interesting. Have you ever had worms at your cosplay night? Is the stage accessible?

Riordan sat on her haunches, head tilted slightly, yellow eyes seeming to glow from the black fur on her face. Accessible…hmmm.

We need a way to get on stage, and places to sit that aren’t dry as death.

I work at the bar, and I’m pretty sure we could set up soil boxes for you. We also have a few lifts on the stage for beavers and naked mole rats and other small people. Would that work?

It might… Gretel trailed off as texts flew back and forth between the members of the concom. It was obvious that THE TONGUE FORKS had never dealt with worms before, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Riordan seemed willing to help, and it might be a good way to bring the fan community together if the con went on hiatus this year.

What kind of people will be there? Is it mostly hominins? Queenie, the concom secretary, curled into a spiral of anxiety as they sent their question to Riordan.

The cat moved slightly to the left of their tree-shaded box to sit in full sunlight. There are a few hominins, but also a lot of other people. We always get a pretty diverse crowd—ungulates, small mammals, some robots. The owner is a monitor lizard and she’s really cool. We’re definitely not a tourist bar.

Queenie sent to the concom privately: That…sounds pretty good?

Do you think the club would really want do go to a space where they’ve never had worms before? Gretel was dubious.

Niobium, however, was already convinced. Not everybody will want to, but it would be nice to see people and wear the costumes we made. I bet we could scrounge up a block of hotel rooms in the next week or so for people coming from up country.

Riordan licked a paw and smoothed the fur on her head, then resettled her hat. I’m going to take off, but I hope your cosplay club will come. Let me know and we can have boxes for you. She sent a contact address to the concom and turned to go, gold piping on her jacket glittering as she leapt away.

By the end of the concom meeting, everyone was feeling slightly better about the inevitable decision to put the con on hiatus. With the TONGUE FORKS invite, they at least had a nice alternative event, with the potential for more if the cosplay night became popular. Elbow managed to convince a nearby hotel to set aside a small block of rooms at a discounted rate for the weekend of the contest. The rest of the club was pretty receptive, though there were the inevitable long discussion threads of dark grumbling and drama farming. Still, they got a dozen RSVPs right away.

Now all they had to do was figure out what to do with their costumes.

Unfortunately, it was going to be a rush job. Niobium and Gretel had spent months working on a Glorious Dames couple costume, but two noir detectives from old Earth were definitely not “mythos.” Still, as Niobium reminded Gretel, they had a backup idea that they’d been wanting to try for a while.

This might be our chance to do Whistle and Midnight—they are definitely heroes.

Gretel spiraled their pink body, dipping their head. We’d be fools to try that. How are we going to make flying moose costumes in ten days? I have long shifts at the farm next week, don’t forget.

I definitely have some extra time. People are so into Whistle and Midnight right now.

Gretel had to admit it was intriguing. Seemingly everyone in fandom was obsessed with Beyond Words, a new saga about Whistle and Midnight’s relationship. Beyond Words went into their whole enemies-to-lovers story, where Midnight at first looked down on Whistle because he was built with a limited sender that prevented him from saying everything he felt. But then, when the Eel River War was brewing, the two moose found themselves fighting on the same side—and slowly came to appreciate that companionship doesn’t require polysyllabic words.

If Gretel had to explain why Beyond Words was so popular, they would probably start by saying it felt original. Unlike pretty much every other story about Whistle and Midnight, it didn’t focus on the war. Instead, it lingered on the peaceful moments between the two moose, segueing between flashbacks to the post-war period when Midnight nursed Whistle back to health, and the “present”—actually, about 700 years ago—when they became urban planners. The climax of the series was when Whistle and Midnight vowed to design a new city built for people of every morphology. They stood together atop Spider City’s great volcano, a glowing sunset framing their towering bodies, and gently rested their heads on each other’s backs. It was romantic, but it was also…mythic.

It was hard to deny that Whistle and Midnight cosplay would be truly epic, if they could pull it off.

Meanwhile, dozens of messages surged back and forth between club members as they planned for THE TONGUE FORKS contest. Mostly they were talking about what to wear, but Queenie had a more practical concern.

Can we get together this week and check out the venue? I want to make sure it really is accessible. Riordan seems nice, but I also got the sense that she’d never dealt with worms before.

It was exactly the kind of organizational thinking that made Queenie such a good concom secretary. A small group including Niobium and Gretel agreed to meet at the bar to check it out that evening, when Riordan assured them she’d be working. The contest was in nine days, and Queenie was right that the club needed to know what they were dealing with.

For a worm, the easiest way to get around Lefthand was to take the train. Nearly all trains had soil-filled pipes where worms could enter, and relatively comfortable boxes to sit in. Unfortunately, as Whistle and Midnight wrote centuries ago in their urban manifesto, the train could only take you so far. The last klick was always a problem, especially for small and soft-bodied creatures. You could buy a vehicle or mount to carry you around, if you were a wealthy sack of toxins who didn’t mind slaving people. But Niobium and Gretel were neither of those things. Which is why they and most of their friends relied on flippy fliers.

Made from gravity mesh scraps, flippies were basically floating blankets. They didn’t go very high or fast, but anyone with a little mechanical engineering know-how could attach a small controller to one and steer it over the heads of hominins. Plus, you could roll them up and carry them easily on or off the train via the tube-shaped worm entrance. Maybe the flippies wouldn’t pass a strict safety check, but they created a valuable aftermarket for mesh, and that meant someone was always willing to sell them. Luckily, Niobium specialized in highly technical costumes. Flippy maintenance was nothing compared to operating a three-meter robotic tail—or rigging up a dragon face mask that could actually shoot flame from its metal jaws.

And so it was that Niobium and Gretel made their way to THE TONGUE FORKS on a damp, mossy flippy, along with Queenie and a couple of newer club members who lived locally. The bar was right downtown, near the “photo op” ziggurat with its “classic bay view” and hordes of hominin tourists stinking of charred cellular tissues and partially metabolized alcohol. The worms sailed a meter over a bunch of tourists moving their mouths, and hurling sounds along with particles of something unsavory.

Gretel was put out. Where in the desiccated turd is this place? I hate coming to this part of town.

Queenie flattened their tail in agreement. Visiting downtown Lefthand is like bathing in vinegar.

I think we’re almost there. Consulting the public network map, Niobium nudged the flippy down one alley, then another.

Soon the crowds and stench faded, replaced by the quiet of residential supertalls with an understory of small markets selling everything from jackfruit and sourdough bread to tissue growth precursors and second-hand actuators.

There it is! Niobium pointed the brown tip of their head at a sign. Images of snakes and lizards writhed around meter-high hand-painted letters: THE TONGUE FORKS. If Gretel had been a perfect Pleistocene-style worm, they would have perceived nothing but the intense red light streaming out of the bar’s front door. But they were built as a person, with a sender installed. And the engineering templates for people generally specified that light sensors should perceive H. sapiens standard visible light. Which was a good thing, if you wanted to do cosplay.

As they hovered toward the door, a human blocked their way. “Sorry, friends. No gravity mesh allowed inside.”

Gretel felt their hearts constrict around their gut. There was no way a worm could get into this place without a flippy or someone to carry them, unless they wanted to get trampled. No soil tubes or ramps—just a scuffed floor, dry except for toxic splatters of alcohol.

Niobium pulled themself up to be as tall as possible and sent to the bouncer. We’re guests of Riordan. We’ll just wait here until she lets us in.

He shrugged. “As long you don’t block the door, I don’t care.”

Riordan responded instantly to their texts and padded out to greet them, her silky black fur set off by a shimmering pink harness with a gold-and-white cloisonné brooch shaped like a rose pinned between her shoulder blades. The worms hovered down to cat-eye level.

You’re a perfect Naomi! Gretel sent, knotting her tail with excitement. That’s a deep reference—she hasn’t worn that outfit since the Garden Mystery series.

Queenie was also knotted with delight. That was my favorite Naomi story!

Thank you! Obviously it’s the best version of Naomi. Riordan sat down and licked her thigh, preening. Can I just say how glad I am to see you again? I can’t wait to show you the stage setup.

The cat stood and turned, trotting into the bar’s ruddy interior.

We can’t come in on our flippy, Gretel sent.

Abashed, Riordan jumped back to stand next to them. Well, if you hover close enough to my back, it will look like you’re riding me and Pretzel here can’t do shit about it. Once we get inside you can fly again.

They hovered inside, close enough to Riordan’s back that they could feel her purring through the gravity mesh.

We’re going to need a worm entrance for the members of our club, though. You can’t do this for everyone who comes.

The cat didn’t say anything and the silence stretched into awkwardness as the bar yawned open around them, its walls covered in dry, dusty curtains. The only moisture in the air felt vaguely poisonous, and it was impossible to tell from this angle which columns belonged to furniture and which to people. There were shoes and stools and hooves and chairs and paws. Riordan sprang up to the bar, and the worms scrambled to hook their bristles into the moss on the flippy as the gravity mesh went nearly vertical in her wake.

There’s the stage, Riordan sent. Isn’t it gorgeous?

From their new vantage point, the worms could see all the way across the venue, where a large sunken area full of cabaret tables faced a stage. A waterfall of golden streamers hung behind the performance area, and a lonely-looking drum set was set back against the wall.

Watch this! Riordan blinked, and three generously sized lifts slowly rose out of floorboards. You could perform on those. And my boss said we can put a couple of boxes of soil in the back for you.

In the back? What do you mean? Queenie moved their head up and down. This was chaos.

Like, backstage? We have a really nice room back there.

Gretel could feel Niobium’s angry tremble, but it would have been imperceptible to Riordan. The stage looks perfect, they sent. But what about audience seating? We want to watch the show. Can you put some boxes on a table near the stage?

Oh right. Riordan swished her tail, slightly agitated. I’ll ask. I bet I could reserve a couple of tables for you.

And what about access through the door?

Riordan’s tail twitched nervously as she pondered. Then her yellow eyes grew wide with an idea. What if we had special rides for you? My friends Sterling are this super cool colony of naked mole rats, and they are coming as the Mustang Court from Wild Spirit of the West. They would seriously love to have riders—it would be like that bit in the game where the hominins have to ride the horses to stop a fire. Have you played that one?

Gretel was stumped, but one of the new club members, Wispy, raised their tail with recognition. Yeah, that’s a sweet game—I love when the Mustang prince gives the humans medals for bravery in one of the cut scenes. It’s actually really moving.

Anyway, the Sterlings could work the door between 7 and 8, when the show starts, and carry any arriving worms to their seats. What do you think?

The worms looked at each other, sending back and forth. It sounded like a good compromise—nobody was going to dry out in the few seconds it would take to get from the door to the table.

Alright, we’ll tell everybody that they have to get here before 8 if they want a ride. Otherwise, they have to figure out some other way to get in.

The cat stood, curling her tail into a question mark shape, and yawned widely. I have to get back to tending bar. Do you want a drink? On the house. The worms went rigid with horror, and Riordan seemed to realize how her offer sounded to animals for whom alcohol exposure could be fatal. Quickly, she added, I don’t mean alcohol! We have some water, fresh from the mountains, and I could muddle it with some mint leaves.

Yes please!

Jumping behind the counter, Riordan fitted her face into a control mask and took command of a barbot whose arms swung into action. Now the cat looked even more like Naomi, with the silver webbing of the mask around her eyes and ears. The arms found a wide, comfortable-looking tray, sprayed it liberally with water, and strewed it with crushed mint.

As the worms enjoyed the cool drink and nibbles, Niobium sent a private message to Gretel.

I think I know what to do for our costumes. I could repurpose my old Rex exoskeletons and turn them into two moose. We would just need to find fur and antlers. That way, we wouldn’t need to ride on mole rat Mustangs to get inside. We’d walk in on our hooves, bigger than anyone.

In that moment, surrounded by a herd of gigantic people whose bodies were literally built on top of hardened minerals, it sounded like the perfect idea. If these acid-quaffing vertebrates wanted to do cosplay, let them quail before the towering achievements of worms. Gretel imagined how they would stride into the bar, their soft segments hidden beneath steel carapaces, the perfect embodiment of war heroes.

Plunging their head beneath a leaf, Gretel sent: I love it. Let’s get started when we get home.

“Hey cat! There are worms on this fucking bar!” The words came from a human standing behind them, his mouth radiating fumes.

Looking up from her work, Riordan’s yellow eyes went black with pupil and the bar bot’s hands balled into fists. This is the VIP area, hominin. Move to the side or I’ll have you thrown out.

The human backed off, grumbling incoherently. It was nowhere near the worst thing the worms heard on any given day. Upsetting, but only briefly. Gretel was so excited about the prospect of life-sized moose costumes that there was no way they were going to be bothered by a clueless, waterless creep.

Two nights later, exhausted from a long meeting about nutrient enrichment at the western farm complex, Gretel stared up at the proto-moose exoskeletons in Niobium’s workshop. They towered overhead, two unmistakably quadruped bodies awaiting their fur. Head fitted into a control mask whose arms were much like those of the bar bot, Niobium was tinkering with a couple of ideas for where to put the drivers’ seats. In the skull, so they could peer out through the eyes? Or in a hidden tube that ran along the spine, so they could look over the costumes’ shoulders?

There was something vaguely militaristic about what was taking shape, as if they would be piloting tanks rather than embodying a love that transcended speech. A sudden wave of ambivalence sloshed back and forth between Gretel’s head and tail.

I’m starting to have second thoughts about these costumes.

Niobium bobbed their head and curled into a tight spiral. Wait, what? They’re coming along really well!

It’s just that we’re trying to do something from Beyond Words, which is a romance. These look like something you’d play in the Eel River War games.

Niobium withdrew from the control mask and wriggled over to where Gretel sat. They’re going to look like Whistle and Midnight when I’m done—brown and black fur, with dress cloaks. They’re not warriors—they’re just people who happen to be a lot bigger than us.

Gretel struggled to articulate what exactly was bothering them about the costumes. I think it’s something about the way our bodies will be completely hidden—that’s fine for some kinds of cosplay, but this is romance. It feels like it should be more intimate.

Intimate like…sexual?

Gretel knotted with laughter. Maybe! I was just thinking about how I’ve never done cosplay in a mixed space. I want those fools at THE TONGUE FORKS to see our worminess. These exoskeletons are like an apology. It’s as if we’re saying, yes, we’re worms, but don’t worry, you can’t see our bodies because we made giant robots for you to look at.

Ohhhh, yeah—I get what you mean. Niobium flipped a little piece of dirt over with their tail, toying with the fresh soil on the workshop floor. Do you have any ideas for what we could do instead? Smaller exoskeletons maybe?

Putting their head into the control mask, Gretel began sketching out some ideas in the air overhead. Smaller moose were a possibility. But what they really wanted was something the club called an unconventional adaptation, when the cosplayer added an unexpected new element to a recognizable costume, or put a clever twist on it. Like when Queenie cosplayed as a robot Naomi, complete with pink metal carapace, blooming with rose holograms; or when Limelight came as a classical musician version of Wasakeejack, complete with a guitar that looked like raven wings.

After a few minutes, they had a 3-D mockup. What do you think?

That is…not what I expected. Niobium stared with their whole body.

It’s super romantic, right? We could rig up a way to make it look like we’re growing a sex coat, too. Gretel zoomed in on one part of the costumes, where a pocket in their fur could unroll into a shimmering silk coat that resembled the soft membrane that emerged from worms’ bodies to envelop them during sex.

You really want us to do the wedding versions of Whistle and Midnight as worms?

Well we wouldn’t just be worms. We’d have fur and antlers, and we could fly using the flippy. It’s an unconventional adaptation!

Niobium curled and uncurled their tail, pondering. If you really want to adapt these costumes so that we’re doing worm versions of Whistle and Midnight, then I don’t think it makes sense for us to have fur and antlers. We should have worm bodies, but wear the wedding gowns from Beyond Words.

Shivering with delight, Gretel buried their head in the soil briefly, then reemerged. We could do the wedding chamber scene! Now I just have to figure out how to rig up a sex coat with their gowns. They wiped the 3-D mockup out of the air and started again, drawing furiously.

While Gretel worked, Niobium moved over to the workbench, where they could do precision electronics work. What they needed was a flexible membrane extruder that looked like a jeweled neck segment. Jeweled segments were a perennial style, though sometimes people wore them near their tails, or even put several on so that their entire body appeared to be ringed with gemstones. When Whistle and Midnight got married in Beyond Words, they both wore necklaces and crowns of flowers, so it would be easy to rig something up that fit the costume.

OK this is what I’m thinking, Gretel sent.

Niobium kept a few of their sensors trained on the electronics table, while also peering behind them at the hologram. Gretel had been thinking along the same lines as they were, positioning a jeweled segment above the thick band of their rosy clitellum, where a sex coat would naturally emerge.

In Beyond Words, Midnight’s gown was purple velvet, fastened around her shoulders and belted lightly under her belly, flowing across her back and hanging just below her knees. Fringed with glittering silver beads, it had a train that cascaded over her tail and swept the floor, edged with lace made from flowers. Her necklace and crown dripped with tiny bunches of blueberries. Whistle’s gown was a similar cut, but in an emerald fringed with gold that set off his red-brown fur. His crown and necklace were woven with pale green leaves.

To make the gowns suit worm bodies, Gretel had kept the colors and fringe, but belted them multiple times, replacing flow with structured elegance. Using a slow, serpentine gait would make the puffed bodices catch the light, mimicking the moose’s rippling fabric. And the trains were truly magnificent—long, gossamer threads beaded with dew and crushed petals.

So once we fly onto the stage, we show off our gowns, then we embrace and show the sex coat emerging to cocoon us. We can play the wedding song, too.

Niobium muscled quickly over to Gretel and enveloped them in a full embrace, head to tail and tail to head. I love you so much. This is such an amazing idea.

I love you, too, my sweet. My—Gretel stopped sending as they felt the sticky swell of an actual sex coat beginning to form between them. Needless to say, they didn’t get much work done on the costumes that night. But Gretel was sure they would be ready by the day of the contest.

THE TONGUE FORKS was mobbed in the best possible way. There were cow gods and beaver tricksters, dog saviors and raccoon warlords, seven robots dressed as the Seven Protectors, and even hominins doing their best to embody something approaching mythical status. Everybody had gone all-out.

Over fifty worms from the club had come out. The Sterlings were meeting them at the door in their Mustang finery, mechanical hooves fitted over naked mole rat paws, and parading them in princely fashion to their boxes next to the stage. Luckily, concom secretary Queenie had done due diligence and checked on the accessibility setup in advance. Obviously the bar staff meant well, but they had completely forgotten to arrange for fresh, damp soil. Queenie was only slightly grouchy about having stayed up until midnight last night getting the deliveries and ordering the hominins to spread thick layers in boxes positioned on two cabaret tables with the best view.

Riordan was unable to stop herself from launching into the occasional leap of triumph as she moved from one end of the bar to the other. Never one for going only 95 percent when she could go 110, she had designed a Loki costume from Trickster Squad: Venus. Her space-dark fur was dusted with gold, and she wore a horned headdress draped with glass rubies. The overlapping leaves of her armor were flecked with fake blood, as were her teeth, and somehow she’d gotten past the bouncer with a lethal-looking scepter strapped to her back.

Niobium and Gretel entered on the back of one of the Sterlings, but leapt into the air as soon as they passed the throat of the hallway. Working until their skin was nearly dry this morning, they had managed to knit pieces of an old flippy into their gowns. As long as they were careful, and stayed balanced, they could fly like Whistle and Midnight did.

Landing on the bar next to Riordan, they were greeted with cheers from senders and mouths.

You look unbelievable! And you’re FLYING! Shit from heaven, I’m jealous. Riordan sent the text while yowling appreciatively, showing off her bloodied fangs.

Meeting up with their friends in the boxes wasn’t quite like going to a worm cosplay con—they were more guarded with each other, unable to shake the feeling that the critical gaze of another cosplayer might transform into taunts. Or, worse, “helpful” comments about how they should avoid public spaces if they didn’t want to be mistaken for a compost escapee. In a room full of worms, Gretel never worried that someone would joke about stepping on them or act surprised that they could speak.

Still, it was good to see Elbow and Wispy and Queenie, and to welcome a group of new cosplayers dressed as the flame-throwing villains from an indie game Gretel had never heard of.

One of the stage lifts bore Riordan upward, to tower over the room in her flashing armor. The DJ emitted a swelling dance beat, and the cat sent to the public channel in all caps for full dramatic effect: LET THE CONTEST BEGIN! AS YOU KNOW, CHILDREN, THE CATEGORY IS…MYTHOS!!!

A team of judges sat at a table, where they would hold up numbers to rank each costume. By some miracle, Riordan had found judges who were cosplayers—but none of them were worms.

First, there was the parade, with everyone crossing the stage, and then they moved on to various subcategories before the tableaux, when Gretel and Niobium would do their wedding scene. As the moment drew closer, the two worms twisted with excitement, obsessively fixing each other’s puffy bodices each time a concerning wrinkle developed.

At last, they floated backstage with the other people entering the tableaux, sizing up the competition. There was one other variation on Whistle and Midnight, of course. Beyond Words was insanely popular right now, and the worms nodded at two cats in moose onesies with flowers on their heads. Cute, but not very inspired. The onesies looked pre-made.

They’ve got nothing on us, Niobium sent privately. Nobody has ever seen anything like what we’re doing.

We’re the best. We look amazing. Gretel nudged Niobium’s tail fondly.

They checked the sex coat mechanisms one last time, readjusted their gowns, and floated on stage.

Wedding music surged over the audience as Gretel and Niobium landed without mishap—phew!—on the lift. They turned and curled, showing off their wedding gowns, as the public channel blew up.

WoRm WhIsTle!!

The trains on those gowns!

Gorgeous!

The flying!!!!!!!

The necklaces and crowns are perfection.

Oh, wait what is happening…

Are they…?

No, they didn’t…that is…

What is that? Why are they putting on another gown?

It’s not a gown! It’s a SOAKING WET sex coat

The sex coat I never knew I needed so much until now?

So hot!

I F E E L S T R A N G E A N D I L O V E I T

On stage, Gretel and Niobium had attention only for each other. Carefully, they unrolled the opalescent fabric of their “sex coat,” wriggling into an ecstatic embrace, as if they had finally found joy after years of struggle and warfare and death. As the music hit its peak, they reemerged from the coat and made a show of straightening each other’s flower-and-leaf crowns before floating offstage with the coat flaring behind them like a cape.

The applause was like rain, and they soaked it up with every pore.

Riordan was reading their scores: TEN, TEN, TEN, TEN, TEN!!! That’s right children—all our judges are in agreement that these romantic, sexy, sparkling creatures are the pure embodiment of…romantic hero mythos!

Back at the table, everyone was toasting them with root-infused water and muddled mint.

I can’t believe nothing broke! Niobium was swollen with moisture and swaying a little bit.

Elbow nudged them both happily. Worm Whistle and Midnight! I never would have thought of it, but it worked so well!

Other cosplayers clustered around the soil box tables now: some moose, who were drunk on fermented apples and losing their minds with glee, the Sterlings of the Mustang Court, a flock of parrots dressed as a pirate demigods, and finally a few timid hominins.

“I didn’t know that’s what a worm wedding looked like,” one of the humans said, readjusting her fox tail. “It was so beautiful. Thank you for sharing your culture with us.”

The worms sent a few snarky messages back and forth privately.

As usual, Niobium was the least bothered. It was a little cringe, but she meant well, they sent.

And then they sent publicly, so the human could see it: Thank you so much. We spent a lot of time working on the mechanism to make the sex coat look natural.

Those were the magic words. The human immediately dropped her unctuous tone and sounded like a normal cosplayer when she replied. “What kind of controller do you use? I’m one of the developers for the Saskatoon Berry embedded system.”

Soon everybody at the tables was swapping stories about the best microcontrollers and wearable computers, sharing their worst technical costume disaster tales, and generally acting like they would at a party during the Worm Cosplayers Con. Except tonight, in this brief, moist moment, they weren’t worm cosplayers. They were award-winning cosplayers who happened to be worms.