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Red Son didn’t always look so much like his mother. If you searched around for paintings from that time and before, in those five hundred years of isolation, you’d come up empty. There are a few from when the Demon Bull King was still around, but they’re so closely guarded that no mere mortal will be able to see them. It’s a mystery to all spectators what he looked like as a child. Or rather, what he really looked like. His mother started using glamour on him as an infant, and then taught him how as a daily routine. The most powerful spells rely on artifacts, not the self’s power, so vermilion powder applied to the skin removes any flaw on the body. Perfection became an expectation he could meet.
Until, of course, it wasn’t. Babies are expected to just look cute, but that doesn’t apply to adults. They must be more. He was so driven to prove himself useful to his mother after losing his father, that he threw himself at any new method for freeing him. At first, it was magic, learning teleportation and intricate sealwork, but then humans started on a frontier that could rival it: technology. He had to conquer that too, with no teacher and just the scraps he could find.
He had more than his fair share of lab accidents as a result. He could remember one specific time that his mother came in to chastise him for the noise, only to drop to her knees at the sight of blood and him on the floor. She crawled forward, and Red Son was so confused by her fear. Why is her face changing like this? Isn’t she proud of how close he was?
“My baby.” She cupped his face with wetness in her eyes. “My boy, what did you do to your body?”
“What do you mean?”
She hiccuped, pointing downward. His vision blurred as he tried to find his place in the world. He’s on the ground, with stickiness climbing up his waist. His lower back all the way to his toes tingled and stung, like he dipped himself in acid. Did he dip himself in acid? He couldn’t tell, understanding there’s a vague bulk nearby, likely his failed experiment. Darkness swallowed him as well as the knowledge of his failure.
Then he woke up far far away, with the beeps of some infernal device keeping him from drifting further into oblivion. He turned in the stiff bed to see his mother, dressed like an ordinary civilian, with the horns missing from her hair.
She only said one thing about the mishap. “If your immunity to fire will not keep you safe from whatever volatile material you work with, it is to never enter your shop altogether. You need to stay safe.”
He took that to heart, and stayed far from chemistry from that point forward. He had an imperfection on his body to show for it, one that doctors did their best to repair. Their best, according to both Red Son and Iron Fan, was not good enough.
His devotion to robotics became his new passion when he left the hospital, soon with an army of android helpers. Even now, with his father back and all plans to take over the city trounced, he saw cybernetics as his calling in life. It was something he could constantly improve on, since technology has its neverending next step. With his magic and variety of flames to weld pieces together and melt them apart, he was second to none in his pursuit. He wasn’t just a scientist, he was an artisan.
And his masterpieces were always saved for his family. Red Son was able to help his father be less reliant on the other pieces of his armor, but a select few, namely the false horn and the iron jaw, would be mainstays that needed maintaining. He wiped his hands of fluid after replacing his father’s mandible, setting the old model aside. Since it’s an installation that can’t simply be removed for things like sleep, they need to switch it out to prevent long term discomfort after the grime of everyday living gets in it.
“What do you think?”
His father turned his head at an angle in the mirror, brushing his claws along his jawline. “It’s perfect. Thank you, son.”
Red Son nodded, already packing up his kit to place under some table until he needs to perform a tuneup on himself. He froze as a large hand rested on his back.
“I hope you’re maintaining your own injuries just as well as you keep up mine. It’s necessary for you to stay healthy.”
Red Son bit his tongue. Of course Mother told him. Why wouldn’t she? His use of illusions to appear normal whenever he wore something more revealing was a farce after all. Even then, this had to be a test. His parents have been forgiving of his faults lately, but he shouldn’t become complacent when there’s constant improvement to make. “I can take care of myself.”
He got ready for bed after that, wiping off the bindi in the center of his forehead before sitting in his shower chair. The hot water forced his hair into uncomfortable clumps, knotting around short horns that the glamour hid. He had to look his best tomorrow. The Monkie Kids invited the family out to lunch, and his parents are hellbent on eating the pig’s cooking. He scrubbed the knobbly scars, different shapes from different injuries that left a map of centuries of scientific screwups. A tufted tail hung off the side of the chair with steel plates fused into flesh, and at this point, he’s more scar and metal than skin. Metal’s always the hardest to clean, but bone implants were the best solution for his predicament, so he checked the skin the best he could before maintaining the cybernetics. He has no time for old wounds flaring up.
Red Son could still smell the cinnamon conditioner as he turned the water off, standing with a self-conscious shudder. He couldn’t stop thinking about if his friends pulled their usual crap of coming in uninvited, long before he could get the glamour back. He pulled the robe tighter around him like that would help, pajama pants only stopping where full slipper shoes could hide his feet.
He knew anyone who saw him sleep in shoes would laugh, but he couldn’t bare his soles while that hint of knowledge swirled in his head. Father knew just how badly he messed up in his quest to get him back. Father knew how much his son lost when he was alone. Maybe that’s why he softened up, out of pity for his child.
When he woke the next morning, it came with the usual reach toward the powder box on his bedside table. He yawned, unscrewing the cap to take a fingerful of powder.
Empty.
He sat up, snapping his fingers. A bull clone stomped into the room, stiff-legged. “I thought I told you to get more,” Red Son growled, holding the lacquer container with disdain. “I specified that it must be here this morning.”
The clone’s eyes shuttered, then it gave a helpless shrug. Red Son hissed and threw the box. Watching it bounce off of the clone’s head didn’t make him feel better. He swung his legs out of bed with a click to the floor with each foot, tail bushed and running to his parents’ chambers. He stopped outside and knocked on the door. His mother opened it with a frown.
“Son?”
“The glamour powder’s gone,” he whispered, like that isn’t obvious with the bindi off his forehead. “Do you have more?”
“No.” She gave him a once over. “I guess you’ll have to go without it today.”
“What?”
“When you were small, I used that powder because your horns used to scare the other children and they would pull on your tail. You don’t need it as an adult. If others are afraid of your appearance, that is their own fault.”
“Mother, we’re going to be around them today.” His eyes widened with pleading. “I can’t go like this.”
“You can and you should. Your father and I have discussed this for a while, actually. They will be more likely to trust us if we appear as our genuine selves. I’ll be going without my horns today as a show of that.” She closed the door, ending the conversation with, “if you’re coming, be ready to leave in an hour.”
An hour?! He swallowed, hurrying back to his room and checking himself in the mirror. He shrank at the sight of dark circles under his eyes, pupils a horizontal tilt that expanded as he worried over his appearance. He brushed tangled hair behind pointed ears, pausing at the sight of hands worn and busted from labor. Triangular nails that should be claws were cut too short to stay out of the way, instead looking ragged. He can’t fix this without magic. He’ll have to abide by his mother’s wishes and go out as himself.
Maybe it won’t be so bad?
“If others are afraid of your appearance, that is their own fault.” Red Son took his hairbrush, fixing long hair and leaving it down for the occasion. Demons have glamour mishaps all the time. It’s embarrassing, but if they’re horrified, he can make a quick exit.
He might as well pick an outfit he always decided against, if he’s going to show everything. He chose a sleeveless shirt with an open back, the loose material comfortable in hot weather. A short orange skirt flared out above the knees with a gap in the waistband for his tail to lash around his ankles. He checked himself in the mirror again, eyes scrunching at the sight of the scars up his arms and stretching the skin from his hips to midway around the femur. He’s never been happy about his looks, but the clothes were nice enough to help the curl in his gut.
“Son!”
“Ready!” He called, now forced to face the music and go to the atrium of their palace. Red Son watched his father’s eyebrows creep up his head as he saw his legs.
“Are you…”
“I’m fine, Father.” He flicked his tail once, the tuft at the end combed to a similar fluff as his bangs. He stepped into the seal that is reserved just for teleporting to Flower Fruit Mountain, a press of his mother’s palm to the center activating the spell. He crossed his arms and set his gaze forward, waiting for the inevitable screeching as soon as they appeared.
“Reeeed—” —Mei jumped and tackled him, lifting him up— “—is here!”
He squawked, kicking with his arms trapped at his sides. “Hey!”
“Love the new look, dude! Different haircut, right?”
“You imbecile.”
“Nah, I saw the tail. Cool as hell. Wait.” She paused, setting him down long enough to crouch on the ground. “No way.”
He prepared for the inevitable turn in conversation, his tail curling near his knees. “I—well—the thing about it is—”
“No wonder you could make your dad those crazy robots.” She snickered, picking up his foot and holding it out to examine further. “You’re a cyborg! Wait, did you make your own legs? Red Son, did baby you make your own legs?”
“I obviously didn’t have the technology five hundred years ago!” He snapped, joints creaking as he hopped out of her hold. “I had a lab accident a few decades back. I thought that I could make a chemical compound to chew through the mountain holding my father, but it melted through the container and…” He gestured to the smooth chrome that transitioned to the acid burns high on his thigh. “The prosthetics others sell work well enough, but they weren’t perfect. I originally made the bull clones to practice making functional joints that won’t wear down.”
“So if I crash my cycle and my arm gets all gummed up in the wheel you’d make me a new arm?”
“I—please don’t do that.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, amazed at that being her first question. “It takes a lot of work to be at the point you can use a prosthetic, and bone implants can be ruinous on the body if you aren’t careful. I’m lucky that I had magic to help speed the healing process.”
“MK!” Mei turned on her heel, heeding none of his warnings to shout to her friend. “If you get messed up in another fight, Red Son can give you laser eyes!”
“Functional optics are very different from a limb!” He immediately protested, watching MK leave his dads to join the conversation. MK’s eyes lingered on the prosthetics for a moment.
“Hey, Red, can you swim with those?”
“I did before.”
“Cool. We wanted to hang out on the beach before lunch. Do you need me to grab you a swimsuit from Monkey King’s house?”
“That…would be very nice. Thank you.”
MK gestured for him to follow. “I don’t know what size you are.”
Red Son nodded, holding his head high as he passed the rest of the group. He saw his parents glance up briefly from their conversations, his mother giving nothing away while his father graced him with a tiny smile. The others stared a bit longer, but no one reacted adversely.
Red Son took some offered swim trunks, changing into them and trailing after the dragon and monkey as they traveled to the foot of the mountain. The raised skin on his chest and back didn’t bother him when it’s just them three. MK turned his torso from his position at the head of the group. “Is it rude to ask why you’re dressed like this now?”
“I ran out of glamour.” He stepped over a tree root, the bottoms of his feet made to cling well to a variety of terrains. “I could’ve tried to get a temporary replacement, but anything that isn’t the high-quality powder you’d see through with your eyes of truth. I—my mother said this would be a good opportunity to show my genuine appearance.”
“Huh.” MK shoved his hands in the pants of his swim trunks. “You know, we never would’ve been bothered, right?”
“I didn’t care when MK became a hairy monkey!” Mei chipped in with a grin.
“I—” He wanted to give the automatic response of I know, but he really didn’t. “It used to be that demons who wanted to be treated as normal needed to look as human as possible. Humans would flee from the sight of you otherwise. It just became normal for me to keep the horns and tail to myself.”
“The legs, though?”
“Well.” He checked his prosthetics with a puff. They were a creation to marvel at, indigo chrome and black titanium crisscrossing to end in hooves he could change to feet for shoes and other such conveniences. “I am proud of them, yes, but that doesn’t mean I want them to be the subject of every conversation. Too many people who noticed the legs looked at me as if I was…flawed. Imperfect. A broken thing to be repaired.”
“That sucks, man.” MK stopped where beach sand stuck between his toes. “If anything happens, we got you, alright?” Mei nodded her agreement. Red Son blinked, trying to match up the new information with what he thought he knew.
They were fine with it. They were fine with it. His friends knew he was a demon before this, sure, but they always thought the appearance he offered was the truth. This one mishap with illusions should have ended in instant rejection. He’s not what they thought he was. He’s not perfect. But they don’t care. In fact, they don’t seem to perceive this as an imperfection at all.
Did anyone think of it that way? Whenever his parents mentioned his failures, was this part of him ever brought up? Mother had a very roundabout way of showing her love, and Father is still struggling at how to integrate into family life. It could be a misunderstanding.
Red Son let them lead him to the water, wading in until he could reach for the water on his fingertips. He wasn’t really a swimmer, but he could stand and talk, or watch them dunk themselves into the ocean and hack up saltwater afterward. They drifted away pretty quickly.
He looked down at the shaky version of him reflected in the waves. He could make out his glowing hair, the spikes of his horns and the exhausted eyes. His tail treaded water, the sun glinting on plates that patched into scarred skin. He’s jammed his fingers and overworked their nerves enough times he will probably need more cybernetics in those joints soon, too. He should start making those plans, anyway. Maybe he could start covering the old scar tissue with more metal as decoration. His friends thought his implants looked cool, after all.
Red Son heard a splash, twisting to see a gargantuan wave heading right for them. He stood his ground the best he could, squeezing his eyes shut as it washed over him. He shoved sopping wet hair out of his face before looking at the cause of the chaos. Father apparently jumped off a cliff to join him in the water, the others in the group choosing to wade in from the shore.
Father crouched down, jaw creaking under the weight. “Are you alright?”
“If water could kill me, I’d be a poor fire demon.”
“That’s not what I meant. I told your mother to allow you not to attend if you felt you looked…”
“I chose to dress like this and I chose to tell them what happened. Mother never forced me into anything. She would’ve let me claim illness if I wasn’t ready.” Red Son shrugged, looking to where the pig was setting up the grill. “Did the others say anything?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Father rustled his hand through his hair, stopping before he could pierce his fingers on his horns. “I’m proud of you, son.”
A lump formed in his throat. “Thank you. I’ll try to be worthy of that.”
“You already are.” Father picked him up, ignoring all protests to place him on his shoulders. “No other son would perfect cybernetics to replace my jaw, now would he? That makes you the perfect fit.”