Eva.cosplays

pokey is a mall goth. but not the kind built on personal freedoms or anti-establishment grit. pokey feels like a mall goth curated by the algorithm, tiktok trends and a thousand-dollar amazon cart. his hair’s professionally dyed, his boots unscuffed. but that’s not really what you notice. it’s the presence he radiates, this quiet, sharpened confidence that only comes from belonging. you’ve never worn black lipstick, never cared for goth music, but still… something about him makes you wish you did. makes you wish you could walk beside him. his blue is familiar (not like richie’s warm teal, staining your fingers in a cramped bathroom) but in a painful way. it’s the blue of dart frogs and stovetop flames. of winter skies so empty and flat they feel like a threat. and when he looks at you, really looks, you’re not just alone. you’re individual. and it hurts.

nibbly is probably the happiest food court worker you’ve ever seen. or maybe he’s just grinning. a grin that stretches too wide, showing every tooth. too wide to be safe. nibbly’s the color of intestines, of pus-pocked acne, of grease shimmering over something bloody. his uniform might’ve started as the same highlighter pink behind every counter, but now it’s muted, aged by years (or eons) of absorbing grease. it almost looks like nibbly himself has been steeped in oil: hair clumped and sticky against his face, his shirt, your food. his visor is dull pink, his eyes cloaked in shadow. he holds a tray out to you. your hands twitch to take it. it feels like you’re supposed to relieve him of it. it’s your order. even if you didn’t place one. even if you don’t know what’s on it. you just… know. and somewhere deep in your stomach, you get the sinking feeling that it’s not the food he wants to eat.

wiggly is a paragon of snotty mall kids. sticky, unsupervised, and terrifyingly confident in the way only children who've never been punished can be. he’s also unmistakably green, crusted around his nose and mouth, fossilized under his fingernails, soaked into his shirt. and he hates you. not in the vague, bratty way. this is something deeper. something personal. every unattended kid in a mall dreams of crushing you like an ant. but when this kid looks at you, you understand that he can. he holds himself with more than reckless confidence. he’s not just sure no one will stop him. he’s sure you can’t.

blinky is a mall cop whose issues with authority transcend the stereotype. he doesn’t resent power, he needs it. he deserves it. He’s compensating for it, breathing down, your neck, keeping constant vigilance. you’ve seen him before. every mall has one. maybe it’s the flickering security cameras blinking orange in the corners. maybe it’s the static whisper of the walkie-talkie on his shoulder. maybe it’s just the way you feel watched before you’ve even walked inside. his sunglasses hide his eyes, but somehow you know. he’s looking at you. you haven’t done anything wrong. not really. but he knows. he knows what you would do. and he’s waiting for it.

tinky is still walking. he’s been walking since the fountain ran. maybe since the mall opened. maybe since before that. his tracksuit used to be tan. now it’s yellow, sickly, rusted, corroded by sweat and time. his skin, his hair, his eyes, everything about him is yellowing, wilting. creased with the dusty, moldy hue of things forgotten in the dark. his walk is slow. wheezing. bones grinding under paper-thin skin. but he doesn’t stop. he never stops. he laps the fountain, again and again. when he looks at you (eyes jaundiced yellow under the cloud of curdled milk cataracts) you feel it. not fear. not pity. recognition. you wonder if this is your future. if this is all that’s left for you. just the suit. the steps. the orbit.