Episode 9 - Bad Boys Go To Mars.

There are some places on Earth where faded stars burn brightly again, and Com‑Con is one of them. It smelled like latex, reheated food, and the collective impatience of people who had queued long enough to develop opinions about franchise canon. A cathedral of nostalgia, complete with its own microclimate and unspoken hierarchy.

Fog machines hissed like asthmatic robots on their last firmware update. Synth music bled from rival booths in overlapping waves until the entire hall pulsed like a malfunctioning starship—too much memory, too much feeling, and absolutely no off switch.

Cosmo Farfetch arrived as if the building had been constructed for him and then forgotten until this very moment. He wore sunglasses indoors. Obviously.

And let’s be honest, to hide the punishment from the previous night’s drinking game. He drank most of the Ewoks under the table and drove one of them into the stratosphere. Naked! He still hadn’t come down.

Yet the glasses served another practical purpose. They were statement sunglasses—lenses dark enough to suggest either privacy or a carefully curated mystery. The frames flared outward in a shape that nodded vaguely toward alien royalty, or possibly a defunct fashion house that had collapsed under the weight of its own ambition.

His jacket shimmered. Metallic, iridescent, refusing to commit to a single colour. The garment caught the hall’s fluorescent lighting and bent it around him like a personal forcefield.

The cut was dramatic without being useful—sharp shoulders, narrow waist, tailored for applause rather than comfort. It was the kind of garment that demanded to be photographed from below, preferably while someone whispered the word icon like a prayer. Madonna, eat your heart out!

A silk scarf trailed behind him like a comma—unfinished business. It was printed with something abstract and vaguely cosmic: starbursts, maybe, or the suggestion of a nebula if one squinted generously. It fluttered not because of any breeze, but because Cosmo moved as though wind had been instructed to follow him.

The overall effect was unmistakable. A man who believed—correctly—that somewhere, at some point, a camera would find him and history repeat. And maybe a sequel!

He paused just inside the entrance, lifted his chin, and let the noise hit him. Applause. Somewhere. For someone. Possibly for him, “Ah, sweetheart! “Cosmo sighed. “Is that the sound of people remembering me?”

“No,” Miles walked in half a step behind him, “Lynda Carter just arrived.”

Cosmo looked over his glasses at a true Icon, “Sweetheart! I’ll give it to her! She is still wonderful.” He snarled, “I so want to scratch her eyes out. How dare she look so sensational when I’m supposed to be the only one.”

Miles wore jeans. Sensible ones. Dark, unremarkable, purchased with the radical intention of lasting several years. His trainers were clean but not new, the kind chosen for standing all day rather than being perceived.

Over a soft hoodie, he wore a Com‑Con T‑shirt—black, boxy, emblazoned with a retro alien graphic and a slogan that had been ironic once and was now simply sincere. It was already creasing in ways that suggested he’d folded it properly and still lost the argument.

He didn’t shimmer. He absorbed light. He didn’t announce himself. He arrived.

Miles lugged a tote bag full of glossy photos, cash float tins, and Cosmo’s emergency lozenges. He wasn’t technically scheduled to be there. He was tagging along—officially as ‘assistant,’ unofficially because the apartment had grown too quiet since Nathan left.

Where Cosmo dressed for memory, Miles dressed for utility. Where Cosmo invited spectacle, Miles planned for reality. He looked like someone who knew where the exits were, read the fine print for an out clause, and would remember to eat lunch even if no one applauded him for it.

Cosmo wasted no time reminding the universe that he was, in fact, the point of all this, not some outdated seventies screen goddess. Bad Boys Go To Mars was a cult classic to some and a money-making side gig for others. Where else would you find a hermaphrodite alien royalty in warrior luminary drag? Only in his movie.

He moved through the convention hall at a pace that suggested important people were waiting for him — which, to be fair, they were. At least three fans screamed his name before he reached the booth. One of them burst into tears and had to be steadied by a woman dressed as a gender‑neutral Predator.

Cosmo removed his sunglasses slowly, always slowly, for dramatic effect. He understood the reveal, “Oh, sweetheart,” he said, taking the crying fan’s hands. “Crying does not work for your pallor…Oh no, no! Something’s are best kept to oneself…and the privacy of their own bathroom mirror.” He huffed, “Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is not the fairest of them all…why, you dear.”

The weeping woman began to squeal with absolute delight. She mistook sincerity for spectacle. She assumed Cosmo was performing Monthra — unisex alien ruler, Supreme Luminary, icon — when in fact he was simply being honest. The woman was an ugly crier.

Cosmo had cried on camera himself, many, many times; that was thought to be breathtaking, haunting even, but certainly never, ever ugly. He did have standards, and so should everyone else who crosses his path.

Phones came out. A tiny ripple of attention spread. A crowd began to form to hear Manthra, Supreme Luminary of the Tharsis Dominion, perform.

Miles watched it happen with the fascination of someone observing changes in the weather. Cosmo could do this anywhere — generate atmosphere, draw focus, bend a room toward him like gravity. It was impressive. It was exhausting.

It was also exactly what Cosmo needed to escape the talons of a vengeful Kenji Sato, who was convalescing in an undisclosed location, no doubt planning to get even with them.

Com‑Con gave him something else to focus on than sitting alone in his room quaking every time Carrie Fisher farted, thinking it was the doorbell. And that Kenji had finally come for him.

At the booth, Cosmo sat with his back straight, tits out, gracing a chair like a benevolent tyrant. Photos were arranged just so — the good angles, the iconic stills, the one from Bad Boys Go to Mars where his cheekbones could have cut glass. He signed, posed, whispered conspiratorially.

“Do you remember filming that?” a leather queen asked, reverent.

“Sweetheart,” Cosmo replied, pen dancing. “I barely remember filming the movie.” Laughter. Applause. Someone tipped extra. “But if you asked if they used prosthetics for my twin appendage…I can confirm one of them was real…but you will have to be the judge of which one.”

Without knowing it, Cosmo had sent a gaggle of chronically under‑loved fans into a frenzy, clustering around their screens like scholars decoding an ancient text. They dissected the footage frame by painstaking frame of his twin appendages, arguing with the righteous intensity of an academic symposium, each convinced they alone possessed the correct interpretation.

It was less fandom and more peer‑reviewed obsession — complete with wild theories, passionate gestures, and the unshakable belief that the answer, whatever it was, mattered deeply. All over what was essentially a dick pic.

Miles handled the money. Counted bills. Smiled politely. Occasionally stepped in when a fan lingered too long or tried to touch Cosmo in a way that crossed from adoration into entitlement.

He was good at it. Protective without being possessive. Close without claiming anything.

Cosmo clocked it. He liked being taken care of. Even more so, it was Miles who was his caretaker. He didn’t want to think about why he felt this way too deeply. It would mean trouble in a beige personality.

By midday, the queue had doubled back on itself. Security had been called — not because anything was wrong, but because Cosmo’s line had begun to interfere with traffic flow. The announcement of his afternoon panel sent another shiver through the hall.

Cosmo leaned back, basking, “Sweetheart, I’ve still got it,” he declared, voice pitched for the cheap seats. “You won’t see Wonder Woman trying to conquer the universe while standing on a planet clearly carved from recycled packaging foam.” He spread his hands, magnanimous. “I gave empire‑building while wearing a breastplate that bit me every time I breathed. I gave my sweat in that damn body suit that gave me the tits that the audience salivated over, while I received a nasty heat rash that had me tarnished as a leper for weeks after that shoot. I couldn’t even get a hand job to save myself.”

Cosmo paused for a beat before someone rudely interrupted, “Those tits weren’t real!” Someone exclaimed, mortified that their wanking had been manipulated and their dirty thoughts had been hijacked by reality.

“I, sweetheart, am an actor. It is my vocation to bend time and space to my will,” He leaned forward, lowering his voice as if sharing sacred knowledge. “That wasn’t science fiction. That was commitment.”

For a second, Miles forgot where he was. His hands lifted—muscle memory, instinct—palms angling toward each other, ready to applaud, before he stopped himself. Too late to hide the impulse entirely.

Miles smiled before he could help it. Not the polite, managerial smile he wore for fans. Not the careful one he used when Cosmo was being Cosmo. The smile of someone watching a magic trick he still hadn’t worked out, even after seeing it a hundred times.

Because this—this was the version of Cosmo he loved. Not the flirting. Not the deflection wrapped in glitter and bravado.

But the moment he stepped fully into a role:

• When he meant every ridiculous word.

• When the camp sharpened into conviction.

• When the jokes became the delivery system for something sincere.

The performance.

Miles shook his head faintly, breath leaving him in a quiet laugh, “You know how to play a crowd,” he said, and it wasn’t teasing.

It was admiration, unguarded and real. Cosmo felt an unnerving thrill begin to bristle just under his skin.

The room for Cosmo’s panel was over capacity fifteen minutes before it began. People sat cross‑legged in aisles. A man dressed as a cyberpunk priest fanned himself with a limited‑edition VHS sleeve. Someone in full latex whispered, reverent, “He’s going to do it. I know he is!”

Miles stood beside him, “Are you ready, Cosmo!”

They clasped hands, “As always!” Then, Cosmo said something unexpected that almost knocked the wind out of Miles, “Thank you…for being here…with everything else you have going on right now.” There was an electrical charge rising between them. They both felt it. Cosmo hated the sensation and what it could mean, “Now, sweetheart, don’t get all misty-eyed. Melody Blaze believes I should show more gratitude. So, here I am taking it for a spin.” The moment quickly began to vanish between them. “You know, dear Miles, you should be thanking me. I did save you from that clown…who I am told has found another bed to insert his big shoes under. An extra! How common!”

Miles wanted to strangle him.

Cosmo just turned away and stepped into the light; the reaction was seismic. Cheers. Whistles. One bark. He lifted a hand — not to quiet them, but to shape the noise, to conduct it.

They asked about the budget. The prosthetics. The infamous warehouse set that had nearly collapsed during filming. Cosmo answered with wit and sass, sharpened by years of survival.

And restraint. He couldn’t drink until happy hour. The contract was quite clear, or risked cancellation and no fee.

The room erupted. Cosmo pretended to hesitate. He never truly did. He stepped forward. The moderator backed away instinctively. Even Miles felt the temperature shift.

Cosmo removed his jacket slowly and placed it over the back of the chair like an offering. When he spoke, the camp thinned. Not vanished — never vanished — but refined into snark for his performance, “Do not fear my twin appendages, Earthlings,” he began, voice low and resonant. “They are symbols of unity… and, on difficult days, enthusiasm.”

Laughter flickered—nervous now. He smiled. Good. He had them.

“You squirm! You hesitate! You call me immoral, but to share my seed is to survive,” he continued, pacing once, letting the microphone almost struggle to keep up. “You tremble because my race does not fit your juvenile ideology. You are but children in the eyes of the universe.” A beat. He let the silence sweat. The crowd murmured now—hooked. A grin. “I am not here to be categorised by earthmen…to be on your charts of obscenities.” A beat. “I will live on in my gene pool…that you’ve just consumed.” Applause started—he cut it off with a raised finger. “And if that unsettles you,” he finished, smiling like a benevolent tyrant, “I suggest you adjust.” Then, softer—but deadly—“Or face obliteration of your kind.”

The room exploded.

People were on their feet. Cheering. Stamping. Phones raised like votive candles. Someone sobbed openly. Someone else shouted, “ICON!” as if announcing sainthood. Take that, Lynda Wonder Woman Carter! I didn’t need a cheap bustier and a golden lasso to turn this crowd.

Cosmo bowed — not humbly, but generously. He had given them something. He knew it. They knew it.

Miles stood at the side of the stage, heart thudding. That was the problem. Cosmo was extraordinary when he allowed himself to be. Not just outrageous. Not just camp. Not just a bitch.

And Miles wanted to be let inside that part.

Cosmo caught his eye in the aftermath — flushed, incandescent, adored.

For half a second, the applause faded. It was just the two of them. Then Cosmo winked. The spell broke.

“Drinks,” he announced into the microphone. “For medicinal purposes.”

The official Com-Con program ended at seven. The real Com-Con began at eight. By nine, the hotel bar looked like a costume department had been shaken vigorously and told to flirt. Capes dragged through spilt cider. Foam armour leaned against velvet banquettes. A stormtrooper attempted karaoke. No one stopped him.

Cosmo held court at the centre of it all. He glowed in the way only recently applauded men do — bright, reckless, convinced of their own invincibility. Every compliment landed like fuel. Every laugh smoothed something raw inside him.

Miles stayed close. Not hovering. Not clinging. Just near enough that their shoulders brushed whenever Cosmo turned too quickly.

“You were incredible,” Miles said at one point, pressing a drink into Cosmo’s hand.

“I have learnt a few tricks over the years of being a prized pony,” Cosmo replied automatically. Then, softer — almost by accident — “I have learnt to bend over backwards and kiss my own ass to win the hearts of an audience…not even a jumped-up clown could twist themselves into that kind of human pretzel.”

“You’d be surprised!” Miles exclaimed.

“Oh! Sweetheart! You’ve been positively spoilt! Honestly, after a man that generous and structurally sound whose centre of gravity would make a trampoline give up, I’m amazed you can look at anyone else without suffering from depression.” That tiny sincerity hung between them longer than expected. “Oh! What a pity, the moment his call sheet arrived, he was out the door without so much as a backward glance…yet who is still here with you…call sheets and all. Me! Cosmo Farfetch.”

Miles opened his mouth to challenge Cosmo when He-Man appeared. He didn’t so much approach as orbit their station.

Blonde bob wig immaculate. Plastic sword gleaming. A chest sculpted by youth and good lighting. He radiated earnest desire — not just the sexual kind, but the kind that wanted to belong in a story.

“Mr Farfetch!” Yes, He-Man was a twunk that could get lost in space if left unfettered. “I saw your panel,” he said, breathless. “That monologue? It was so mesmerising! How could you remember all those lines?”

“Yes, I was brilliant! I thought to myself, should I hold back a little? I don’t want to get everyone all in a dither, but the professional inside me said, No! Cosmo! You are a damn performer! You must perform!” Cosmo smiled, salaciously, touching the younger man’s hand, “And now here we sit ruminating about it…with quite the audience.”

“Is there a chance…for a much more…one on…” He-Man noticed Miles. “Two…discussion elsewhere?”

That was important. He-Man didn’t treat Miles like an accessory. He leaned in, asked questions, and held eye contact. Complimented him on his T-shirt logo. Included him in his proposition.

“You two have chemistry,” He-Man said, grinning, gazing between Cosmo and Miles. “It’s almost…electric.” The younger man smiled, “I want to bask in your afterglow for a while.” His cheeks began to redden with embarrassment. “Sorry! I sound so fuckin chessy! I don’t get out very much nowadays. I’m a little rusty.”

Cosmo arched a brow, “Oh, sweetheart! So is a nail…and you can still drive it home.”

“We don’t need to go that far…I’m in room 201.” He-Man glanced across at Miles, “Are you in?” He began to caress his inner thigh, “I prefer team sports.”

Miles was used to being discarded by Cosmo when he found a target. No one had ever asked him to join in. He felt a rush of pure euphoria as the man gently coaxed a shot glass between his lips. He-Man did look similar to the clown, just with smaller feet.

Drinks multiplied. Conversation intensified. Proximity reducing. And inhibitions seem to disappear.

At some point, Cosmo’s hand rested at the small of Miles’s back. Miles didn’t move it away. He-Man’s knee brushed both of theirs under the table, and no one pretended it was accidental, “You know, I’m ready for bed…I am usually under the duvet by nine.”

Cosmo smirked across at him, “How regionally quaint!”

“Sensible,” Miles commented.

“So, are you both coming up?”

Cosmo looked at Miles. It wasn’t a performance look. Not quite. Miles held it. They both smirked salaciously across at each other. It was on! Surprising both Cosmo and Miles.

The elevator was too small for dignity. He-Man pressed the button with the hilt of his sword. Cosmo snorted. Limbs poked and prodded improperly. Some fumbling and flirting with clothing. The air simmered. The space grew steamy.

In the hotel room, the chaos turned intimate the moment the door slammed closed. The sword hit the carpet first. Then the boots. Laughter loosened what nerves remained. It was not clumsy. It was not desperate. It was eager.

He-Man kissed Cosmo like a fan who had fantasised about it. Cosmo allowed it, then redirected him towards Miles.

Cosmo caught a glint in Miles’s eye. That was the moment. The shift. This wasn’t parallel indulgence. They were in it together. His hands mapped familiar ground. Shoulders remembered weight. The kiss with Miles seemed to deepen — not nostalgic, not tender exactly, but charged with recognition.

He-Man fit around them easily, delighted to be included rather than centred. A third current in an already humming circuit.

Miles’ laugh broke against Cosmo’s neck at one point. Cosmo answered it with something low and unguarded.

Costumes peeled away. Skin met skin. No one rushed. There was a moment — brief, startling — where Cosmo stilled. For once.

Miles’ hand was in his. Not by accident. Held.

He-Man murmured something about the power of Greyskull, which made them laugh, which broke the intensity just enough to keep it indulgent. Not serious. Not something more.

But underneath the farce, the real thing flickered. Cosmo and Miles moved together. Not two men borrowing distraction. Two men remembering. An in-flight toilet cubicle, long ago now, yet still so vivid.

Later, tangled in sheets and discarded plastic armour, the room felt smaller. He-Man fell asleep first, sprawled heroically. Miles lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. Cosmo turned toward him.

“Look! Sweetheart!” Cosmo asked, voice low. “This isn’t our first dirt devil in the derriere.” Miles nodded. “It doesn’t need to be a thing…my lumiere.”

Then, after a beat, Miles replied, “What if I want that?”

“Oh! Sweetheart! The fragrance of hedonism is such a heady scent that it is bound to cause malfunctions to sanity,” Cosmo brushed his thumb over Miles’ knuckles once. “But we must fight against such maelstroms. It is but sex…not anything more.”

Cosmo rolled away because that was as much closeness as he could survive in one night. The city hummed outside. Inside, two bodies slept. One, silently, cried into his pillow. Once was stupidity, twice was pure masochism.

Miles woke first. Cosmo draped across his naked body. He let the man wriggle against him, holding back a fresh set of tears. It was better to be this close than not at all.

The other side of the bed was empty. No heroic sprawl. No blonde bob on the pillow. No plastic sword abandoned like evidence. There was just a dent in the mattress and the faint scent of Lynx body spray.

Last night hadn’t felt chaotic. It had felt… deliberate. Miles screwed up his face, almost hatefully, smacking his fist into Cosmo’s arm. Hard enough to wake him up, wanting to leave a bruise.

Just as Cosmo had done to him, not just on his backside, but in his heart too, “Sorry, Cos! Just a mozzie...nothing more.”

Cosmo stirred, rubbing his arm, “Sweetheart! Have you been lifting rocks?” He sat up in bed, wrapping the sheet about himself, “Why does my mouth taste like victory and regret?”

“My fault…no doubt. I’m the regret that keeps on giving.” Miles huffed a laugh. “He’s gone.”

Cosmo blinked. “Who?”

“He-Man.”

Cosmo frowned faintly, then shrugged. “Heroes are notoriously unreliable.”

Miles hesitated, “Cosmo… where did you put yesterday’s cash?”

That woke him.

Cosmo rolled over, scanning the room. The tote bag that Miles had brought from the convention floor lay open on the chair. Open. Not casually unzipped. Open in the way that suggested fingers.

They both stared at it.

Cosmo rose slowly from the bed, sheet trailing behind him like the ghost of better decisions. He checked the bag.

Not empty — lip balm, Sharpies, a crumpled protein bar. But the envelope of earnings from yesterday’s signing was gone.

Cosmo straightened, indignation rising like stage smoke, “How dare he compliment my monologue and then steal my livelihood away. He has now fucked me more than once…I feel like a chaste virgin at their first orgy… humiliated and hollowed out.”

For half a second, they just stood there — half-dressed, hungover, betrayed by a man in foam armour.

And then, absurdly, they both laughed. Of course, life was never predictable for them.

Cosmo’s laughter faded into a smile, “I had already rationed half of the money for a visit to Dr Bombay…Alas, dear Miles, Mother time is leaving her mark.” Cosmo pointed to faintly visible crow’s feet. “Can you not see her tap dancing on my face?’

Miles frowned, “Cosmo! They are barely noticeable.”

“Barely…soon becomes obvious.” As usual, Cosmo did what Cosmo did best: deflect the awkwardness of this threesome that was now a bedroom farce. Not unlike the play, just with far more nudity. ‘You know, I do miss the romanticism of the stage, that charged audience waited with bated breath to be entertained by us, like gladiators in the arena.” His brow furrowed, “You know, I was rather convincing as a heterosexual husband in Bedroom Farce…the theatre is a far more forgiving mistress of my proclivities.”

“I know. I was there. For all 96 performances.” Miles sighed, “Well…you worked hard for the cash, so we’re getting it back.”

The search began on the convention floor, and then they checked the bar. The bartender confirmed it with the tired certainty of a man who had watched too many heroes unravel before happy hour.

“Oh yeah,” he said. “Blonde. Built like a gym manifesto. He kept yelling about ‘intergalactic diplomacy’ and being able to pay the rent. Then he took the escalator down when someone asked for a donation.”

A Dalek rolled between them with mechanical purpose, “UNAUTHORISED MOVEMENT DETECTED,” it barked. “DOWNSTAIRS ACCESS IS PROHIBITED.”

Cosmo waved it off. “Sweetheart, I think it is high time you touched some grass before you become dependent on welfare.” He gave the Dalek a push that sent it toward a set of stairs.

The pepper pot cursed him as it tipped over, “Fuckkk Youuu! I WILL…RETURN!”

Cosmo moved on. Miles hanged back to check on the man trapped inside the toppled Daleks, “Not the most frightening life form in the galaxy…nothing compares to Cosmo Farfetch.”

Cosmo popped back, “You were saying?”

“Nothing.”

The escalator groaned as they descended, carrying them away from sanctioned nostalgia into fluorescent purgatory. Below lay folding tables, unofficial signings, banners printed that morning, and performers who had once been Henchman Number Three and still charged accordingly.

Cosmo stopped, “Oh,” he whispered reverently. “My people….theatre folk.”

Miles grabbed his wrist, “Eyes away! No time for fawning.”

They spotted him immediately. He‑Man, half‑costumed, muscles gleaming, Cosmo’s envelope clenched in one hand like sacred loot. The second He‑Man clocked them, he swore loudly and ran.

He‑Man panicked, swerved, and collided with a droid. They cartwheeled over and over before He-Man jumped up and ran off once again.

“After him,” Cosmo shouted, already moving.

He‑Man vaulted a folding table, scattering glossy headshots like sacred cards. Cosmo followed with theatrical abandon. A banner toppled on him while He-Man escaped. The crowd screamed delightedly. Phones flew up.

Miles took the inside line, ducking under a swinging cape and hurdling a crate with grim efficiency.

A stormtrooper stepped into the corridor, blaster raised with absolute confidence, “Halt,” he said, thinking this was a cosplay performance, wanting to join in the fun and games. “For the empire!”

He fired. A dart propelling from his non-existent blaster. Then another. The darts took out an Elvira look-alike, shooting her in the left breast while the other nicked the fleeing backside of C3PO, whose campy distress call drowned out all the other noises.

He‑Man zigzagged past the One Piece gang, “Show me the way to the Grand Line!” They looked on, perplexed, “An exit!” They did.

From the side, a man dressed as Monkey Magic leapt into He‑Man’s path, staff spinning with impressive enthusiasm and deeply misplaced confidence, “Monkey will stop you…demon king.” He-Man turned to defend himself, proving to be far less skilled than Monkey. The silly fool was sent somersaulting across the floor.

Monkey jumped to his feet, lifted two fingers and waved them in front of his mouth while whistling.

He gestured upward. He leapt into the air, expecting a cloud to appear. Nothing happened. He landed badly, skidded, blinked in confused betrayal at the stubbornly cloudless air, and shouted, “Buddha is upset with me!”

He‑Man didn’t stop. He kept barrelling on ahead.

“Oh,” Cosmo breathed, “Miles. Exquisite.”

Monkey was all compact power and precision — broad‑shouldered, thick‑thighed, built like someone who’d earned every inch of himself the hard way. His features were unmistakably Japanese, strong and clean‑cut, cheekbones sharp enough to catch light even in motion, hair dark and unruly from exertion rather than vanity.

Cosmo clocked it instantly. Strength. Beauty. Discipline wrapped in theatrical chaos. Irresistible.

Cosmo beamed. “Sweetheart, if you survive this, I would love to buy you a drink and discuss your…ninja skills.”

Monkey grinned — distracted — his pride returning. He attempted a spinning leap. To impress. The floor was slick. He went down hard, staff skidding away, taking out a rack of unofficial X-Men dolls. 

“Oh…dear, the illusion is broken.” Cosmo vaulted past him without slowing.

Miles shook his head as he ran. He’d never change. Cosmo could be lying dead in a ditch, and a handsome guy would raise him from the dead.

He‑Man cut left, boots pounding, confidence carrying him faster than sense. He burst into a themed display — a low‑rent “Lunar Outpost” assembled from black drape, silver truss, and an optimistic amount of glitter. Foam stars hung overhead. A painted crescent moon leaned against a crate.

Cosmo skidded to a halt. At his feet lay a scatter of decorative moon rocks — grey, jagged, deliberately uneven, glued together just loosely enough to look authentic, “Oh, sweetheart,” he breathed, delighted. “Set dressing can always be useful.”

Without breaking stride, he kicked. The rocks went everywhere — skittering, bouncing, rolling across the polished concrete like malicious marbles. A constellation of hazards, improvised and elegant.

He‑Man was hit. He lost his footing. Momentum betrayed him. He windmilled, arms flailing, dignity evacuating the premises.

He went down hard, legs tangling, the universe briefly reduced to grey foam, bad decisions, and the sound of his own confidence cracking. The envelope flew from his hand, arcing beautifully — tragically — through the air. And it was no longer defying gravity as the envelope lay on the floor.

“Something has changed within me, Something is not the same,” Cosmo began to sing as he approached the thief. People began to turn at his voice, being captivated by it. “I’m through with playing by the rules of someone else’s game.” He reached down and plucked the envelope off the ground, “Mine…I believe,” He continued to sing for the crowd that had built up around him, “Too late for second-guessing. Too late to go back to sleep. It’s time to trust my instincts. Close my eyes and leap!”

Then everyone joined, and they all began singing Defying Gravity. Lynda Carter was left impressed!

He‑Man sat on a folding chair that wobbled with every breath. He looked chestfallen. Just like a kid caught stealing. Nothing as magnificent as He-Man in the cold light of day.

Cosmo stood in front of him. Not looming. Appraising. “Well,” Cosmo said, folding his arms. “You’ve run. You’ve fallen. You’ve embarrassed yourself in front of several intellectual properties.” A beat. “Now we arrive at motive.”

He‑Man swallowed, “I wasn’t planning to steal it,” he said. “I really just wanted to have some fun…I haven’t had any time for myself in such a long time. I miss the days of being a disco queen by night and a member of a gay rugby team by day. I was living my best self,” He‑Man opened his mouth. Closed it again. “You see…my sister died last year,” He‑Man said. “Car accident. No warning. Just… paperwork and three kids who suddenly needed an adult.” He laughed once, hollow. “Turns out muscles and men don’t come close to paying the rent, raising three growing kids and a dog named Bo.”

The noise of the convention seemed to fade a notch. “I work casual jobs between drop-offs and pick-ups from school.” His voice wobbled despite his effort to keep it steady. “But everything keeps going up. School fees! Food bills! Rent!” He stopped. Cosmo waited. “If I can’t look after them, they will be split up,” He‑Man finished. “Different foster placements. Different suburbs. Different lives.” That landed.

Cosmo straightened slowly, “Oh,” he said. Not dramatic. Not cruel. Just… understanding arriving somewhere it hadn’t planned to. “So you thought,” Cosmo said carefully, “you’d rob an ageing science‑fiction relic to keep your family intact.”

He‑Man nodded. “I figured you’d survive it.”

Cosmo huffed a short laugh. “Bold assumption.” He turned the envelope over in his hands. Once. Twice. Miles held his breath. Cosmo looked back at He‑Man. “What’s your name? Real name. No alias. No falsehoods.”

“Samuel Sacks…but my friends called me Sammy.”

“So, Samuel,” Cosmo said, clearly defining their non-friendship. In case he got the wrong idea. He already had a one-night stand who stayed. He didn’t need any more. “How old are they?”

“Seven. Nine. Eleven.”

Cosmo clicked his tongue softly. “Oh, sweetheart, the age where they remember far too much.” He walked a few steps away, then back again, restless. Annoyed. Unsettled. “You know,” he said, “I’ve played conquerors of entire galaxies, gay sluts and soap villains.” He gestured vaguely. “Not one of them dared to take on three children and a Centrelink form.” He stopped in front of Samuel and pressed the envelope into his chest, “Take it, Sammy!” He was folding quicker than a deck chair. He-Man was destined to be his newest best friend that he had slept with. Once. Well, maybe twice for certainty.

He‑Man stared. “What! You’re giving it back?”

“Oh, sweetheart, just take it before I change my mind,” Cosmo said. “There is a fridge missing vodka bottles because if this….you might actually be doing me a favour.” Miles looked stunned. He was never prouder of Cosmo than in this moment. Cosmo leaned in, voice low. “This is not charity,” he said. “This is an investment in me…because you’ll always remember Cosmo Farfetch…you’ll make me immortal in your tiny universe.”

He stepped back, smoothing his scarf.

Sammy’s eyes shone. He nodded furiously. He was never so besotted by a man as this sad old relic of a science B-grade movie. He felt his body engorged with desire for him.

Cosmo turned away before thanks could happen. Miles fell into step beside him.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he said quietly.

Cosmo sniffed. “Please. I’ve wasted money on far less compelling men.”

They walked on.

Behind them, He‑Man sat very still, clutching the envelope like a lifeline. He would get another chance with his family.

Stay tuned for another exciting adventure with Cosmo Farfetch. Coming soon.

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Daz James

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