When Heroes Come to Town

The armour clanked softly as he turned. Foam, paint, Velcro, and pride.

I took this shot at a cosplay convention. The kind where universes blur together in the corridors and everyone is someone else for a while. He was dressed as Optimus Prime—or something close enough to carry the weight. She stood opposite, painted purple, gold-clad glove raised in mock judgment. Thanos, reimagined with a wink.

I shot from behind. It felt right. Not to reveal, but to witness. There’s a kind of reverence in seeing a costume from this angle: the care in the stitching, the scuffs from wear, the illusion holding just enough to be believable—but only to those who want to believe.

There’s no stage here. Just concrete floors, natural light, and a hundred conversations at once. But these two had locked into their own script, half-serious, half-laughing. No need for words. Just posture and paint and play.

In a world that moves too fast, sometimes the most human thing you can do is become a machine.