Chameleon | ONC 2020

1: A Different Face

Chameleon was trying out a new face.

Her test subject was the balding, perpetually sweaty business-type who frequented coffee chains and always looked harassed over the top of a laptop screen. His name was Desmond, and he was boring.

He was also unobservant.

His phone was a comfortable weight in her jacket pocket as she smiled and leaned over the table, a hand resting lightly over his. He was sweaty and feverish-warm, and his throat bobbed like that floating ping pong ball at every science fair. A haze of darkness that only she could see hovered over his head like smoke.

"Do you want to take this somewhere else?" she asked, in the low purr she'd been practicing in the mirror that morning. The cloud over his head lightened.

"We could go to my place?" he suggested. He expected her to turn him down; didn't really believe she could be interested in him. The betraying cloud darkened as these thoughts progressed, and she watched them wear at his resolve in his slumping posture, nervous glances, the twitching of his hand under hers. She wasn't a mind reader, but she had been doing this for years and she knew Desmond's type. She had no intention of spending the night with him.

She sat back, letting her hand fall away. She readjusted her bra under her dress, tucked a strand of her wig behind her ear, and ran her tongue along her teeth as if she was worried they had lipstick on them. It played Desmond like a fiddle; he watched her in what he probably supposed was an unobtrusive manner, a whisper of dismay showing in his eyes as he realised he might have just lost her with his hesitance.

Their booth in the diner gave Chameleon a good view of the door. Over Desmond's head, a lanky, roguish young man in a biker jacket and man-bun swaggered in. He was greying at the temples despite his young years, and his eyes were set into deep, tired hollows. A scar was just visible over the neckline of his shirt, and his teeth, when he smiled, were crooked and yellowed. Chameleon saw all this; Desmond, when he turned to see what she was suddenly so interested in, only saw a threat.

"I've got a good bottle of wine at home," he said quickly, more fired up than he had been all through dinner. "Or we could go and see a film. The cinema's still open."

All through his speech he was preparing to leave. Chameleon watched with a little smile as he slapped down enough cash on the table to cover the whole bill. He was too flustered even to notice he didn't have his phone anymore.

She pulled a grin back onto her face, but this was a necessity job and it was tiring. She was surprised Desmond didn't catch on, but she supposed he hadn't caught on with a lot of things. Like her wig, or the fact that her dress was one size too big because she'd shoplifted it without checking the label. Or indeed that she'd never been remotely interested in him at all.

She followed him out onto the street. It was dark out, and the street lamps cast an orange glow over their faces, much more forgiving on both their looks than the harsh lamps in the diner booth. The man in the biker jacket exited a few minutes later and followed them up the street at a safe distance. Chameleon glanced over her shoulder once, but her boyfriend had headphones in and didn't notice. Or he was ignoring her. Both were equally possible.

"Hey listen, it's been really nice tonight," Chameleon said. She eyed the cloud hovering over Desmond's head. It was an ugly purple-grey, which suggested that her date didn't feel the same way.

"I'm glad." His tone was clipped. He'd spotted Coran walking behind them. "Do you know that guy?"

"Friend of a friend," she said airily.

"Any chance you could ask him to give it a rest? I saw him when we got in the taxi. He's been following you."

"Has he?"