Internets! I discovered Polyvore.com, and then promptly dressed my characters. As one does! Even though I hate writing clothing descriptions, I am fully au fait with procrastinating via playing dressups for my characters.

I thought I might share with you the results, one a day, for the rest of the week, because why not.

Tegan Oglietti




Ah, our heroine. This is not actually how Tegan likes to dress, given her druthers. Before she dies, Tegan's hobbies include soccer, urban exploration, and parkeur, so she is not much for restrictive clothes or fancy fabrics that might snag or stain or let her mother know what she's been up to. (After she dies, Tegan's hobbies include trying to blend in with future society, avoiding kidnapping attempts, and breaking in to top secret government facilities of unknown purpose.)

What she wants from her clothing is that it be supportive (she has big boobs) and cover her skin, because as a very pale woman in 2027/2128 Australia, she burns like bacon. She likes bright colours, fabrics that allow movement without too much excess flow, and shoes with no or low heels.

Unfortunately, her publicist, Tatia, is invested in a Tegan she can sell to an audience very curious about the Living Dead Girl:

“I think I look like a mannequin,” I said.

“A beautiful mannequin,” Tatia said. “Reasonable, Jacob.” She turned to me and clapped her hands twice. “And now, my favorite part!”

Apparently my makeup was too important to be trusted to anyone else; Tatia plucked and brushed and buffed and blended until I wanted to scream.

But that might have cracked my lip color, and then I’d have to do the whole thing over again. “There,” she said at last. “Perfect.”

I opened my eyes. The girl in the mirror was recognizably me; it wouldn’t have helped Dawson’s goals to completely alter my features. But everything had been heightened or flattened. My lips were bright red, the cupid’s bow of my mouth emphasized. My eyebrows had been left fashionably unplucked but darkened until they were the same shade as my hair. Tatia had put in contact lenses that enlarged my irises and added huge fake lashes, top and bottom. My eyes looked enormous, gleaming dark brown against skin that had been polished to ivory, with just a touch of warm pink on my cheekbones.

All my imperfections were gone. No hairs on my upper lip, no persistent zit just under my left ear. The length of my nose was still physically there—I touched it for reassurance—but some trick of shading and perspective had diminished it to a tiny button.

There was something weirdly familiar about the way I looked, with my black hair molded into smooth waves and collected into the illusion of lustrous curls at the nape of my neck.

I climbed into my costume of a heavy blue tunic and gold leggings, trying to pin down that resemblance.

“Snow White!” I said suddenly. “You made me look like Snow White!”

“Awakened from a deathlike sleep by a handsome prince,” she agreed. “We want people to see you as a romantic heroine, not a leech on our national resources.”

“Do people even watch Disney anymore?”

“There was a revival about ten years ago. That’s long enough that the association will be familiar but largely subliminal.”

This was just great. The Beatles were obscure trivia, but people could still recognize that stupid movie. It wasn’t worth pointing out that I’d been awakened from actual death by a doctor and an army initiative instead of any kind of prince; Tatia was perfectly capable of ignoring these inconvenient facts.

Tomorrow: Abdi Taalib!