“Style is the answer to everything…Joan of Arc had style.”

  —CHARLES BUKOWSKI

  //Codex Tag

  function inscribeAnnotation017(content=

  /* If it’s not already graffiti, it should be. Anything worth doing is worth doing with style. Batman has style, no parents, but he does have style. */

  codex.updateEntry("On Style | All action can be art. It depends on the intent.");

  }

  Ding! [LEVEL UP!]

  Level: 6

  [Stat Points Awarded]

  +1 to each core stat

  +1 additional choice stat awarded

  >> KEEP WRITING! <<

  Remi absentmindedly put the point into intelligence, his focus still on the egg.

  He knew it wasn’t totally safe where he had it, but he was going to fashion class next. Hopefully, there, he could figure out a better solution; something that would let him carry it wherever it needed to go.

  Remi was interested to note that his Fashion class was off the forbidden hallway. Given that the bell had just rung, it was nice that it also happened to be just adjacent down the cut across hallway that the kitchen exited out to. He strode across the back hall with purpose, and while he could see the bright headlight of the overhead projector, it was too far away to even have the remotest chance of reaching him. Remi entered the Fashion Lab.

  The door clicked shut behind him. Remi expected some bolts of cloth and maybe a dress form or two. Instead, he found a room that looked like Project Runway met a baroque boutique. There were no sewing machines, but looms moved autonomously with faintly glowing thread. Spindles moved by spectral hands. Floor-length mirrors rimmed in silver filigree hung opposite. There was a screen divider, parchment and bamboo, that created a private changing space. Beside it, a tailor’s dummy dripped in a sequined vest. The room felt like it had a class that was contrary to what you would find in an institution. It was a space that was airy and shimmered with hope and possibility.

  And then—a bass beat kicked in. There were lutes and electric guitars, drums, and reed flutes; it was equal parts ballroom eleganza and magical academia. The lyrics were even more amazing:

  “Thread by thread, step aside, mon amie.”

  “It's time you're gifted the design that's me.”

  The beat dropped, each line hitting on the subsequent downbeat with an accompanying sound.

  “Stitch.” SNIP!

  “Cut.” SNAP!

  “Serve.” CLICK! The last sounded like Dorothy’s shoes asking to go home.

  “Strut. Slay. Inspire.” The sound hung in the air like glitter.

  “After you meet me, your look will serve fire!”

  A man appeared at the top of an unnoticed catwalk. A tall, silver-coiffed glamazon in a richly embroidered chesterfield coat, scissors holstered like sidearms. Remi didn't know how he knew the type of coat, but in this space he did, and it was fabulous. He floated down the circular stairs, stopping to mog an unseen camera halfway down. The music played until he was right in front of Remi. With a snap flick of long graceful fingers, the music cut off mid-beat.

  The face before Remi had high sculptural cheekbones that were offset by a soft expression and thin laugh lines that clung to the corners of his lips. The man’s skin was dewy, if that were even a thing. He had remarkable eyes. One violet, and the other a smokey grey, yet they didn't seem mismatched, rather complementary. There was a very French beauty mark stitched under his left eye. It read like an artist’s signature on a Renaissance painting. The smile that met Remi had no hint of cruelty. It would be wrong to say it felt priestly, as that didn’t seem to fit; more like cat-walk confessional. Remi knew he could tell this man anything, and no system would ever pry it from his lips.

  There was a faint smell of lavender perfume, with notes of sandalwood.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “I am Beauregard St. Lueur de Vervaine! My friends…” he paused, his gaze gliding up and down Remi like a stylist assessing a china pattern. Never had Remi felt so read. “…and you, maybe call be Beau. In fact, mon etoile, you can call me your Beau if you’d like.” The lips curled into a flirty pout.

  “Okay, Beau. Thanks.”

  “You're welcome, for sure, mon etoile. But we don’t have all day, and I can’t let you leave here looking like that.”

  Remi wasn't sure whether he should be offended. “Like what?”

  “Oh, Remi my dear,” he slowly circled. The click of his boots, while not a condemnation, was certainly not a compliment. He pursed his lips and flipped his left hand upwards, pausing with the palm facing outward. Beau moved his extended arm up and down, as if he were trying to polish a piece of tarnished silver. “You, mon etoile, look like a first draft. Like a pair of homemade jorts. Functional, but without any je ne sais quoi. But don’t worry. I can certainly fix that. Starting with that hideous bag. It looks like someone pulled it out of the drawer. My dear, this isn't anything but a backpack day. You need something more stylish. More you. I have just the thing.”

  This was going in the right direction. The one thing Remi was certain he was going to look for was a sturdy bag. Beau snapped his fingers.

  PLINK!

  [UTILITY STATION UNLOCKED]

  Hidden panels slid open along the walls to reveal drawers, racks, an ironing board, and even a sewing machine, all spun outwards and snapped into place with mechanical flair. There were rods holding gleaming garments; others revealed lacquered jewelry boxes. Finally, the far wall unfurled like a magician’s Tada, presenting bags of all shapes and sizes: satchels, backpacks, crossbodies, even a fanny pack covered in sequins.

  It was to this last section, where the assistant popped out from the magic box last, that Beau walked. He started walking along the bags, his hand hovering, not touching. He paused over a briefcase, shook his head and said, “No, too stuffy.” A tasseled clutch was similarly passed over. “Don’t think he's going to the club anytime soon.” Finally, Beau stopped, hand perched above a crossbody satchel. It looked like it was stitched from multiple fabrics: nylon that might come from a school backpack, some faux-leather, even some repurposed bookbag canvas. None of it matched, and yet somehow magically held intact. It looked like a work bag, something that might be from the school’s swag store, but from some posh British preparatory school. There was nothing about it that Remi liked. It was both too formal and casual all at the same time.

  Please keep moving, Remi thought.

  “Perfect!” Beau picked it up, walked over to Remi, and even though he was shaking his head vigorously no, it was quickly settled over Remi’s head and across his body. Beau stepped back, admiring the bag. “Yassss, Diva!”

  “Ummm. Diva,” said Remi.

  “Of course, mon etoile. Diva is a gender-neutral term. Applies to all who are fabulous. Which now you're becoming!”

  With no help, the bag auto-adjusted. Remi hated the bag even more. Beau looked at Remi, his head tilted sideways. “It is on the wrong side.” Without asking, he unzipped the bag and began to carefully but efficiently transfer the contents of the shopping bag. The last item was the egg, which Beau made a cooing noise to, before putting it too in the satchel. Closing the satchel, he flipped the bag to Remi’s left hip, stepped back, clicking in approval. “Perfect! It’s yours now.”

  [NEW ITEM: Murse of Pedagogical Dread]

  Type: Soul-bound Crossbody Narrative Utility Storage

  Rarity: Refined (Upgradeable)

  Appearance: A previously worn mismatched satchel stitched from various educational relics, frayed canvas, faux-leather binder spines, lunchbox mess, and the embroidered patch of a forgotten prep school. Fastened with an oversized and annoyingly loud brass zipper.

  Description:

  A dimension-warped, narratively linked carryall. This bag is part magical utility, part emotional baggage, and part pocket dimension. Worn slung across the body with a self-adjusting strap. Refuses removal.

  Starting Compartments:

  The Pit | “If you can get it in the bag, it'll store it.”

  Bottomless non-combat inventory. Items dropped inside are automatically sorted into relevant organizational paradigms.

  Snack Drawer | “You look like you forgot lunch.”

  Once a day—produces a random minor recovery item. Often with a hint ‘o mint.

  Utility Pouch | “In case of narrative emergency, read the note first.”

  When called upon, produces a single, contextually helpful item, along with a handwritten sticky note (limited uses per day).

  The Dread Pocket | “I wouldn’t open this if I were you.”

  Vibrates intermittently. Emits faint whispers. Moves when not observed. What's in it? Whose to say.

  [LOCKED: One-Time Access]

  Incubator Compartment | “Some things require warmth and faith.”

  Keeps biological or fragile items safe. Maintains gentle heat. Currently housing: Egg of the Forgotten.

  Remi really didn’t want to offend, but this had gone on long enough. “Thanks Beau. I get it is practical, but there is no way I’m walking around the Crucible with a Murse.”

  Beau didn’t even blink. “Don’t be silly! Were you hoping for a Birkin bag? You need something hands-free. It holds everything, even living things. And anyway, it’s soul-bound. You couldn’t get rid of it now if you tried. Leave it behind, and it’ll just reappear at the next doorway. Might as well rock it, mon etoile. It’s yours.”

  The tooltip for the bag updated.

  Soul-bound Notice: This item is permanently linked to Remi Page. Discard attempts will fail. Leaving it behind results in re-materialization at the next narrative transition point. Style objections are irrelevant.

  Remi looked at himself in the mirror. The bag wasn’t really that bad. He liked to tease his friend, who loved Batman, about how his superpower was really convenience. If the Caped Crusader needed anything, he could reach inside his fanny pack. Sorry, utility belt. And pull out the perfect solution. He needed shark repellent; there it was. Kryptonite, the lost mineral from a forgotten planet, why not?

  Remi loved how much the joke riled up his buddy, but he couldn’t deny how useful it might be in a fight. Maybe style really could accessorize survival. Remi unzipped the bag.