Roxanne finished applying her lipstick and looked at her reflection in the mirror.

Her lips twisted with dissatisfaction. She looked—

The gown she was wearing was made of wine colored silk; it was comfortable, as far as formal gowns went, and it fit her well—the hem just brushed the floor, so she wouldn't be stepping on the edge of it all night; the neckline was flatteringly heart-shaped, but didn't plunge so deeply that she'd be worrying about the risks of accidental exposure; the waistline hit her waist perfectly; the straps were secure.

Yes, it did fit her well, and she'd certainly liked it well enough when she'd looked at it in the dressing room of the shop—

Which was why, of course, she'd went ahead and bought the thing in multiple colors.

(Roxanne Ritchi, miss vanilla-as-they-come, miss 'I bought the same dress in three different colors'—don't tell me you really think that she's—)

Roxanne shoved the memory violently away and glared at her reflection. Yes, all right, so she'd worn the black version of this gown to the city new year's party, and she'd worn the grey version to the celebration of the opening of the new charity hospital two months ago! It wasn't like she could go out and buy another gown tonight; she was supposed to be at city hall for the mayor's birthday gala in twenty minutes.

And what did it matter what she wore, anyway? It didn't! It wasn't like she had a date; not even a fake date this time; Wayne had made sure everybody knew that, in that particularly humiliating magazine interview yesterday.

(oh but Roxy I thought you wanted everybody to stop thinking we were a couple, and yes, she had; of course she had, and to be fair she had been relieved when she first read the article; the real humiliation of it hadn't struck her until she'd overhead that—)

It didn't matter. She was on a mission, tonight; it wasn't like she actually cared about the stupid gala, or what anybody thought of her apparently terrible dress sense or evident lack of sex appeal!

Roxanne turned away from her reflection and tugged on her long black opera gloves. Then she swept her things into her beaded clutch handbag—cellphone, keys, driver's license, bandaids in case her shoes gave her blisters, aspirin in case the party guests gave her a headache, hairpins—Roxanne had seen Megamind pick a lock with a hairpin once, and had been more impressed than she'd wanted to let on. A few leading questions and she'd had him explaining it to her. Explaining quite clearly, really—when she'd tried the trick for herself, later, she'd managed it on the first attempt.

He was good at explaining things. An unfortunate trait in a supervillain. If he'd just stop monologuing to her about the minute details of each evil plot and doomsday device, he'd have much better luck against Metro Man.

She put the lipstick tubes in her purse last of all, the dark red color that she was already wearing, and the other, special lipstick tube, too. Then she snapped her bag shut and very pointedly did not look at her reflection in the mirror as she left her bedroom.

As far as unpleasant social situations went, Roxanne thought, there was really nothing quite like the growing conviction that you were wearing the wrong sort of dress.

Roxanne had known people would notice her wearing the same gown in a different color for the third time in a row. She had been prepared for that.

What she had not been prepared for was the fact that, sometime between the first wearing and the third wearing, the dress had actually gone out of style.

All of the other women were wearing bright, shimmery things, all beading and embroidery and floating iridescent fabric. Gowns bared the wearer's shoulders, or their backs, or their décolletage in daring plunging necklines.

Roxanne's plain, dark dress looked severely modest and austere in comparison.

She hadn't worn any jewelry besides her pearl stud earrings; all of the other women were wearing jewelry! She was the only one wearing gloves! When the hell had evening gloves stopped being a thing?

The entire outfit was a disaster.

Which was not only embarrassing, but also extremely inconvenient. Sticking out so badly made it much harder for her to slip away from the party discreetly. She was already the subject of covert stares and whispering, what with that damned tabloid article earlier this week, and then Wayne's interview yesterday—and then she had to go and wear the most conspicuously wrong gown possible.

She'd been forced to strategically withdraw into the shadow of a large statue of Metro Man by the hallway doors and pretend to drink champagne for fifteen minutes. Wayne himself had come by at first, and talked to her, which was also exactly what she didn't want, but eventually he'd gone away, leaving her alone.

Her dress blended into the shadows, and after she'd stood there long enough, everyone got used to seeing her there—so used to seeing her there that they ceased to actually see her at all, their eyes sliding past her as they moved around the room, talking and eating and dancing.

Roxanne drew even further into the shadow and set her untasted champagne down on the base of the statue. Then she slipped out the doors and into the hallway.

She walked straight on, into the entrance hall, where the party guests had all stood in line earlier to get into the ballroom. It was empty now.

On the far side of the entrance hall, a velvet rope strung between short brass poles marked the point beyond which the public was not permitted. As if to make the demarkation that much clearer, the electric lights on the far side of the velvet rope had not been lit, leaving the hall beyond the velvet rope in darkness.

When she reached this boundary, Roxanne, without hesitation, turned sideways and slipped between one brass pole and the wall.

High heels clicking softly in the silence of the deserted corridor, Roxanne made her way down the forbidden hallway, away from the light and laughter of the party, and into the dark.

...to be continued.