Masks Off: Stories of Midwest Cosplayers

Katrina and Mikhail: Geek Love

Geekdom, much like sexuality, has a spectrum. On one end of the spectrum is "normal," in sans serif font, black letters, fixing itself a cup of coffee, a pair of tickets to the St. Louis Cardinals game in its Dockers. On the other end, in a riot of color, dancing to "Caramelldansen," a furry tail poking out of its pants, is "GEEK." About 95 percent of humanity's score lies somewhere within the spectrum, not at either extreme. Some geeks enjoy the Cardinals, and some normal people go to midnight showings of the latest Marvel or DC movie. My best friend owns a three-bedroom ranch, proudly carries a Coach purse, and can pull from her memory a Star Trek quote to fit any situation.

Then ... there are Mikhail and Katrina.

"We are living in a subculture," Katrina says.

Mikhail adds, "It's a way of life."

Every day, they live the life of the GEEK. Specifically, the cosplaying GEEK. They are known for being very, very good at what they do. And they do all of it together. The results are some of the most stunning self-made costuming seen in the Midwest. They have run four St. Louis area cons. (That's right. Not attended, ran. All of the responsibilities, from recruiting the guest stars to booking the hotel, were theirs.) Their record number of cons attended in one year is 15, but "that was killing us," Mikhail insists. They have been featured in numerous documentaries and publications. They are, in Midwest geek culture, the closest thing to celebrities as you can get.

In costume, they can be anyone. Anime characters or Dr. Who characters. Historical recreations or fantastical creatures. Lovers or foes. Men or women.

Out of costume, they are a delicate study in contrasts. Her hair is straight and neat; his is a frizzy mess contained in a ponytail. She is always smiling, cracking jokes, blurting out and interrupting; he makes quiet observations over the tops of his glasses, barely granting more than a smirk. She is all curves, but still slim, with round cheeks; he is a gangly twig, to the extent that I want to take him home and feed him, with sharp features set in a long face.

When you give your life over to being GEEK -- not "geek," like me or my Star Trek friend, but GEEK -- you have to surrender everything. That includes your home.

I walk into a one-bedroom townhouse in south St. Louis County, and I am immediately over-stimulated. GEEK is on the walls, on the shelves, on the refrigerator magnets. It is stuffed into four closets: from floor to ceiling, literally, forming leaning towers of storage bins and boxes.

"This one actually has regular clothing in it," Katrina declares as she opens the bedroom closet. It is stuffed with costume parts. She stares inside, dumbfounded. "It used to have regular clothes in it ..."