The Princess, the Cyborg, and the Matter of the Garden Gnome

(or how jinnis failed to write punk wars)

by jinnis

The princess was angry. Not that she had a viable reason to be, as the chairman's job she had been aiming for was above her qualifications. Still, she had wanted it. She wasn't a princess either, but that didn't make a difference in the greater frame of things, and she didn't want to spend her negative energy on technicalities. Instead, she stomped her foot. Unfortunately, she had forgotten she wore the diamond-studded four-inch heels that came with the steampunk outfit she had hired for the party.

By the lancet of pain shooting through her toes and ankle, she could tell it was a bad idea to stomp in this kind of footwear. She wobbled and tottered to the purple plush sofa, where she dropped in a rather un-princess-like heap and muttered a curse that would have made a tomato blush. There was no tomato present, of course, so she was safe. Or so she thought.

"This type of expression doesn't fit you, my dear." The voice of her visitor had a metallic quality. "Especially not in this gorgeous outfit.

She craned her neck, not just ready yet to brave her heels again. The cyborg stood by the open door of the patio. His face mask looked like a rusty Boba Fett rip-off and the man's arms ended in bulky weapons complete with flashing led lights.

"Wow. You went all out with the costume, Clive. Aren't these a bit on the heavy side?" She pointed at the body modifications.

"It's a competition, right? Your outfit isn't half-bad either." He stomped closer, his heavy boots clonking on the oaken floorboards.

The princess struggled out of the sofa's comfortable embrace and adjusted her goggles. "Shall we go then? Before you damage my floor for good."

"Always so dramatic. But yes. Do you have the invitations?"

The princess picked the gold-rimmed cards from the coffee table, slid them into the neckline of her corset, blinked her sparkly golden eyelids and blew him a kiss before she swayed out of the room.

The taxi ride took only ten minutes. "Okay, Livia, let's crash this party."

She blew him a kiss and braved the marble stairs leading to the closed double doors, where she pressed the bell. "Seems we're fashionably late."

A butler in formal livery opened the door and scrutinised them with a blank face. "How can I help you?"

"We're here for the party." She pulled the invitations from her corset with black and gold striped fake nails and held them out for the butler to study.

His brows raised perhaps two millimetres. "Ah, I see. If it pleases you to follow me." He turned, and they followed him across the vast entry hall. The thick crimson carpet swallowed the sound of their steps. The interiors a tasteful combination of marble, gilt, and red. Whoever their host was, he had money to spare.

Livia sent Clive a glance, but was met only by the dark eyes lit of his helmet while they climbed a broad flight of stairs to the first floor. Behind a set of beige double doors, classical music played. "An interesting choice of venue for a costume party."

The butler sent her a frown, but then just opened the door for them.

The princess took her partner's arm and entered the hall with swaying hips and a dazzling smile—and tottered to a stop after three paces. This wasn't a costume party. Rows of dinner tables stretched to the far end of the hall. White tablecloth and napkins, flickering candles and soft music from a classical quartet playing on a dais filled the room with an atmosphere of serene festivity.

The princess turned to the butler, but the man had already left and closed the door behind them.

There was no escape. She turned back to face the several dozens of well-dressed dinner guests whose gazes rested on her bare thighs and her companion's bulk. Through the haze of embarrassment, she made out raised brows, dark frowns, and a few amused smirks on familiar faces. Not all was lost, then.

She straightened her back, pushed forward a hip, and donned her most dazzling smile. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Pleased to join you."

An urgent tug at her laced lycra sleeve spoiled her performance. "Liv, look." Clive's voice was a mere whisper, but she was sure half of the guests must have heard it—and all could see where he pointed his fake blaster-arm.

The stout man at the head of the main table wore a tailored grey suit. His short, dark hair was styled to perfection, and a smile played on his ruddy face.

"Well, well. Seems Livia and Clive bothered to join tonight's celebration after all." He toasted them with a crystal glass filled with something bubbly.

"Herbert. What a pleasant surprise." Livia prided herself on taking everything in stride. Almost everything. Right now, she was glad she had Clive's padded arm to cling to. "What's the reason for the celebration?"

"I got elected chairman of the publishing house."

She swallowed. This wasn't good. Not with their history of not-so-friendly rivalry since their early uni days. But if Herbert was their new boss, she had to play along and save the day.

"That's nice, isn't it, Clive? Our congratulations, Bertie."

"Congratulations." The cardboard of the helmet muffled Clive's voice—or his reaction was as unenthusiastic as hers.

Livia felt she had to make up for it. "So nice to see an old friend and fellow student succeed."

Herbert placed his palms on the table and leaned back. "Non of your credit, I'm afraid."

"Oh, we always supported you, didn't we, Clive?"

Herbert raised his bushy brows. "Oh, that's why you painted a garden gnome as my look alike and placed it in the entrance hall the day I applied for a job in your marketing department?"

"Um." She felt the blood rush to her cheeks. Hopefully, the glimmer in her make up hid it. Herbert had been the number one nerd in their year, an easy victim of their jokes. The night before his interview, they had been drunk and perhaps high, and found it funny to undermine his reputation. Needless to mention, he failed to get the job. "But you must admit, the chubby little fellow looked like your twin brother."

Herbert shook his head. "If your silly prank did something, it made me aware I had to prove my worth by hard work and not by relying on favours and so-called friends."

"Ah, no hard feelings, Bertie."

"No hard feeling, just economic ones. I am afraid your extravagant belly button piercing doesn't fit this event. Neither does your sense of humour fit the spirit of our company."

Her hand found the exposed part of her midriff before Clive placed an arm around her back and steered her to the door. She opened it on an automatic reflex and stumbled out of the hall now cheering with laughter. Hot tears burned in her eyes and she felt mascara running.

"Bloody bastard."

"Kind of humiliating, isn't it?"

"No. Not at all." She struggled to control the shaking of her knees. If this went on much longer, she was in danger of toppling over. "It's just—well, okay, I'm mortally embarrassed."

"Me too." He tried to scratch his neck with his fake weapons arm and knocked off his helmet together with his glasses. They landed on the polished marble tiles between them. "Shit-shit-shit."

"What's the matter? They are still whole."

"But I can't see them without wearing them. I mean, I'm basically blind. Where are they? Don't step on them."

"I won't, just calm down." She bent to pick up the eyewear but realised this was a bad idea in a corset and heels. "Okay, I got this. Just give me a sec."

She kicked off the shoes and knelt to collect both the glasses and her footwear. "Here you go."

He fumbled for his precious seeing aids with his fake arm and then shook it off to throw it aside. Once his sight restored, he also found his grin again.

"Much better."

"So you say. Do you realise we both got fired?"

His grin broadened. "I do. But this means we can pull out with a bang, right?" He picked up his fake arm and swung it like a club.

Her eyes brightened as she brandished her stilettos. They would make for excellent weapons in a melee. "Let's go to war."