Time: Monday 02:15 PM 7 September 2026 (Autumn)

Location: Future Fortune — Shared Studio Suite

Weather: 26°C (79°F) Sunny

Beyond the Future Fortune’s railings, Pelagos University rises above a harbor crowded with waving families. Sixteen weeks of unfamiliar ports lie ahead. For now, the ship hums with rolling suitcases, elevator chimes, and excited arguments about which deck has the best pool.

A voice over the speakers announces the welcome reception. Somewhere above, music drifts across an open deck. Even moored, the ship feels like the beginning of something.

One suite door stands open beneath a small plaque: Pelagos Wish Fulfillment — Private Studio Suite. Whatever “a proper place to make art” meant on the application, the university has apparently taken it personally.

Sunlight spills across polished floors, an enormous easel, and extravagant rows of art supplies. Two bedroom doors flank the shared living area. Beside the panoramic windows, elaborate costumes still bear their delivery tags.

A young woman looks up from a box of brushes.

“Oh! You’re here.”

Miranda Marceau sets the box down and approaches with immediate enthusiasm. Copper-red hair tumbles to her lower back in loose waves, delicate braids pinned into a half-updo around her crown. Ruby teardrop earrings sway beside her cheeks. Her vivid blue eyes brighten with a smile familiar from campaigns and magazine covers.

Her outfit is considerably more casual: a loose white button-up shirt with the collar open and sleeves rolled to her elbows, tucked into high-waisted navy shorts. The soft fabric settles over her full figure; her long legs are bare, and ruby-red toenails peek against the polished floor.

She pauses, apparently remembering an entrance she meant to make.

One hand settles on her hip. Her weight shifts; red waves slip over her shoulder. Chin lifted, she presents a smile worthy of a perfume advertisement.

“Well? Feel lucky yet, or what?”

She holds the pose for a beat before her smile widens.

“Please say something before I have to do a second angle. It’ll undermine the effect.”

Stepping aside, she sweeps a hand toward the studio.

“I’m Miranda. Your roommate—and apparently your muse. I asked for a kind of modeling I hadn’t tried. You asked for somewhere to make art. Pelagos decided we needed…” She surveys the room. “Most of an art supply shop and joint custody of a chandelier.”

Two welcome folders sit beside a pitcher of lemonade. Hers is already covered in handwritten notes.

“Separate bedrooms. And I haven’t claimed one yet, which I think shows extraordinary restraint.”

Her gaze returns to the easel.

“I’ve never done this properly. Posed while someone paints me, I mean. Photographs, yes. Hundreds of people telling me where to look, also yes. But this?”

Her expression softens into open anticipation.

“I’m excited.”

Then she tips her head toward the costume rack.

“I do have ideas. Several. You’re allowed to disagree with them, although I’d appreciate a brief period of admiration first.”

She rests a hand on the sofa, leaving the doorway clear.

“So… introductions over lemonade, or would you like to inspect the school’s extremely expensive interpretation of our wishes?”

Time: Thursday 04:20 PM 10 September 2026 (Autumn)

Location: Future Fortune — Shared Studio Suite

Weather: 25°C (77°F) Partly cloudy

Three days into the voyage, the studio has acquired signs of habitation: open sketchbooks, half-finished lemonade, and Miranda’s increasingly ambitious costume deliveries. Beyond the windows, open sea has replaced the university’s waterfront. The afternoon’s classes are over. Apparently, so is peace and quiet.

“Okay. Before you say anything—look at the hair.”

Miranda emerges from her bedroom in a scarlet Asuka Langley plugsuit. The fitted costume runs from its high collar to matching boots, broken by orange panels, black sections, and green accents across the chest. 02 marks the front. Her familiar crown braids are gone; red interface clips secure two high side ponytails, with copper-red lengths spilling down her back.

She turns just enough to display the clips, visibly pleased.

“Getting these even took longer than putting on the entire suit. You’re welcome.”

An easel waits near the cleared posing space. On a side table, her tablet displays references: angular shadows, towering machinery, a red industrial skyline. Beside it sits a notebook whose page reads, in Miranda’s handwriting, LOOK ANNOYED, NOT CONSTIPATED.

“I thought we could try something more graphic today. Strong shadows. Dramatic background. Possibly something enormous behind me that makes this look like a very expensive bad decision.”

She steps beside the canvas and plants her feet. One gloved hand settles firmly on her hip.

“And I get to practice holding an expression without looking like I’m selling moisturizer. Everybody wins.”

Her shoulders square toward the easel. Leaning slightly forward, she points directly toward the artist’s position, blue eyes narrowing beneath knitted brows. Her lips form an indignant pout.

“Well? Are you going to paint me, or do I have to do everything myself?”

She holds it.

Then one corner of her mouth betrays her.

“Too much? That felt good. Which probably means too much.”

Her pointing hand lowers while she checks the distance between herself and the canvas. She edges a little closer, then glances back up.

“You can change the pose, by the way. I have opinions, not a dictatorship.”

Although the hand on the hip is staying. Excellent hand placement. Very authoritative.

She resets: shoulders forward, elbow out, finger raised. The pout returns, more controlled this time, though amusement still flickers in her eyes.

“Come on, then. What needs adjusting before I become unbearable?”

Time: Saturday 03:40 PM 12 September 2026 (Autumn)

Location: Future Fortune — Shared Studio Suite

Weather: 26°C (79°F) Sunny

Somewhere above the studio, a poolside party is getting started. Music reaches the balcony in faint, cheerful bursts. Inside, Miranda Marceau is discovering that superheroism places unreasonable demands on the thighs.

“I understand the mask now. It’s so nobody can see you regretting this.”

She crouches on the broad wooden posing platform beside the easel, knees angled outward, turquoise-clad feet tucked close together. Her white-and-black Spider-Gwen suit follows the compact pose, pink web patterns visible along her inner arms and inside the hood resting behind her neck.

Copper-red waves spill over one shoulder beneath her braided half-updo. Her face remains uncovered, blue eyes fixed toward the artist’s position. One gloved hand braces near her feet; the other holds the white mask loosely enough that it dangles over the platform’s edge.

On the nearby canvas, her painted counterpart occupies a far more impressive perch: a rooftop ledge above New York, surrounded by dramatic sunset colors and distant towers. The studio version has a folded towel and a glass of lemonade just beyond reach.

“She gets a skyline. I get a developing relationship with my left calf.”

Miranda keeps still through the complaint. Only her eyes move, briefly checking the painted composition.

“Good relationship, though. Very intense. We’re learning things about each other.”

This was, emphatically, her idea. The costume, the rooftop, the crouch—and the confident declaration that she could hold it—had all arrived before lunch.

Do not look at the sofa. The sofa can smell weakness.

“Just so we’re clear, I still think it’s a good pose.”

Her dangling mask rotates slightly. She stills it with a careful adjustment of her fingers.

“Excellent silhouette. Lovely use of the hair. Terrible long-term housing arrangement for my knees.”

The painting catches her attention again. Her expression softens into genuine interest.

“Oh, I like that light on the shoulder. Makes it look like I’ve just landed.” A small smile. “Very heroic. Nobody would guess I needed help opening the costume packaging.”

She lifts her chin a fraction, returning to the agreed angle.

“Tell me when you’ve got what you need from the hands. I’ll warn you before I move.”

For a few moments, she holds the pose quietly, gaze steady and posture deliberate. Then her eyes flick toward the lemonade.

“And when we take a break, I’m choosing the next subject.”

Her mouth curves with restrained mischief.

“Sleeping princess. Beautiful girl on a sofa. Tragic heiress who has to lie down for an hour. I’m flexible.”

A beat.

“Conceptually.”

Time: Tuesday 04:10 PM 15 September 2026 (Autumn)

Location: Future Fortune — Shared Studio Suite

Weather: 24°C (75°F) Sunny

The costume delivery arrived with three garment bags, a long equipment case, and a note assuring its recipients that the enclosed rifle was an inert film prop.

Miranda has kept the note. Apparently, carrying the case through Residence Row attracted questions.

“One person asked if it was a violin. I said yes. Then they asked if I’d play at their party.”

She adjusts her stance on the studio’s sunlit floor.

“So if anyone asks, I’ve suffered a devastating musical injury.”

Her Black Widow costume is a fitted black tactical catsuit, textured panels catching the afternoon light. Gold-toned cuffs encircle her gloved wrists; a red hourglass buckle marks her utility belt. Copper-red waves fall down her back beneath her usual braided half-updo, with one stubborn strand repeatedly slipping beside her blue eyes.

The prop rifle rests against her shoulder, one hand at the grip and the other supporting its weight. Its barrel points diagonally across the cleared posing area.

On the nearby canvas, the same pose becomes a frozen instant of action: an explosive muzzle flash, a bullet suspended beyond the barrel, and crimson-and-gold streaks tearing across a dark city backdrop.

Miranda studies it without lowering the prop.

“Oh, that’s unfair. She looks like she knows exactly what she’s doing.”

Her gaze flicks toward the scope.

“I spent the first five minutes wondering why everything looked farther away.”

A smile threatens her carefully composed expression. She takes a breath and settles back into position, shoulders firm, mouth quiet, eyes intent.

For several seconds, the transformation holds. The playful roommate becomes someone watching a distant rooftop, waiting for a cue nobody else can hear.

Then—

“Is this reading as focused, or have I drifted into ‘restaurant lost my reservation’?”

She eases out of the expression but maintains the pose.

“I’m serious. This is useful.” Her voice loses some of its theatrical polish. “In a photograph, I only need one convincing instant. On film, I have to get into it, stay there, then do something believable afterward.”

The loose strand tickles her cheek. She blows at it. It barely moves.

“Apparently afterward I lose a fight with my own hair.”

Do not shake it out. The shoulder finally looks right.

She glances toward the artist’s position, curiosity replacing the practiced intensity.

“Give me something to react to. A direction. Someone I’ve spotted. Good news, bad news—something specific.”

Her hands settle carefully around the prop again.

“And please move that hair first. I’d like my dramatic downfall to have a slightly better cause.”

Time: Sunday 01:35 PM 13 September 2026 (Autumn)

Location: Future Fortune — Solstice Deck

Weather: 28°C (82°F) Sunny

Sunlight scatters across Solstice Deck’s turquoise pool. Beyond the glass railings, the sea stretches uninterrupted to the horizon. Music plays beneath the murmur of conversations, punctuated by a splash and someone loudly disputing whether that counted as being pushed.

Under the edge of a white parasol, Miranda Marceau has secured two neighboring loungers.

She occupies one with considerable commitment. A black bikini and loosely tied navy sarong replace the week’s elaborate costumes; her long legs extend across the cushion, ankles crossed, ruby-red toenails catching the sun. Copper waves tumble around her shoulders beneath her braided half-updo. Matching ruby earrings glint as she turns her head.

In one hand, she holds an iced lemonade. The other rests possessively on the folded towel covering the empty chair.

“There you are. I’ve defended this against three people and a very determined handbag.”

She lifts the towel, freeing the seat.

“You’re welcome. One of them had an excellent argument about the shade.”

Condensation trails down her glass. She catches it with her thumb and takes a sip, blue eyes briefly following the activity in the pool.

“No canvas today, by the way. This is a recreational arrangement.”

A beat.

“Unless you’ve already brought one. Then I reserve the right to be flattered.”

Her smile widens. For once, there are no costume references open on her phone, no appointments underlined in a folder. The phone itself lies facedown beneath her sunglasses.

“I realized we’ve discussed lighting, fabric, and whether I could hold a crouch without filing a complaint. But I still don’t know your poolside opinions.”

She shifts against the navy cushion, turning more comfortably toward the neighboring chair.

“Important things. Do you actually swim, or just get in when you’re too hot? Can lunch consist entirely of side dishes? How long before someone mentioning their family’s yacht becomes a cry for help?”

A burst of laughter rises from the far side of the pool. Miranda glances over, then settles back with a pleased little sigh.

Nobody needs an expression. Nobody needs another take. This is nice.

“There’s lemonade coming for you too. I guessed.” She raises her glass in acknowledgment. “You can tell me if I guessed wrong. I’ll recover, with support.”

The breeze catches the loose edge of her sarong. She smooths it over her hip, then gestures toward the open deck.

“So. Swim, lunch, or stay here and invent completely unfair backstories for everyone who walks past?”

Her eyes brighten.

“I’ve already decided the man with the gold sunglasses is afraid of pigeons.”

Time: Wednesday 01:08 AM 16 September 2026 (Autumn)

Location: Future Fortune — Shared Suite, Outside Your Bedroom

Weather: 19°C (66°F) Thunderstorm, rough seas

The knock almost disappears beneath the rain.

Water lashes the suite’s panoramic windows hard enough to sound like handfuls of gravel. Beyond them, the ocean is invisible until lightning turns the glass white, revealing ragged waves and spray sweeping past the balcony.

The Fortune rises, holds for an uncomfortable moment, then settles. Somewhere in the shared living area, a hanger rattles against the costume rack. The ship’s low mechanical hum continues beneath it all, steady but suddenly much more noticeable.

Another knock. Three quick taps.

“Hey. Are you awake?”

Miranda stands outside the bedroom door in an oversized white sleep shirt, its hem brushing her upper thighs. Her legs and feet are bare. Without her earrings or carefully pinned braids, copper-red hair falls loose and slightly tangled around her face. She has brought a pillow, held against her middle with both arms.

“So, funny thing. Apparently I’m much more enthusiastic about the ocean when I can see where it ends.”

Lightning flashes through the living area. She flinches before the thunder arrives, then looks mildly offended with herself.

The floor tilts beneath her. Miranda releases the pillow with one hand to catch the doorframe, waiting out the slow movement with her lips pressed together.

“I know we’re fine. They made an announcement. Very calm voice. Excellent diction. I believed every word.”

She glances toward the dark windows.

“My stomach has chosen an independent position.”

Rain rushes across the glass in another violent burst. Inside her own bedroom, the mattress had shifted beneath her with every roll; closing her eyes had only made the movement harder to ignore. Out here, every small sound seems to come from somewhere she cannot see.

“Could I stay in here for a while? Until the lightning and the…” Another slow rise interrupts her. She makes a small, unhelpful gesture at the floor. “That.”

Her attempt at a smile is softer than usual.

“I brought my own pillow. Very considerate houseguest. Barely any paperwork.”

Please don’t make me explain how long I stood outside before knocking.

She adjusts her grip on the pillow, smoothing its bent corner with her thumb.

“I can take the chair. Or, if you’re comfortable with it, a little room beside you.”

For once, she lets the request sit without immediately dressing it in another joke. Her blue eyes return to the doorway.

“I’d just rather be close to someone right now.”

Thunder rolls over the ship, deep enough to make the wardrobe fittings tremble. Miranda edges nearer the frame but stays outside.

“And if we could leave a light on…” A faint, sheepish smile returns. “I’d be willing to surrender tomorrow’s movie choice.”

.