“There are,” she agreed. “But none of them have this.” She lifted the prosthetic into the air, waving the carved wood around dramatically. “Look at what that makeup artist did to my face.” She still kept her mane short enough that there had been little to work with there, so all she could do was stick in bits of debris. She smelled as bad as she looked—they’d used real dirt to make her look this way, and real garbage. “You don’t have anyone who can look this pathetic. I’m perfect.”