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Princess Maker 1.5: avante en garde
[ When you insert the key and open the door, you'll find yourself stepping outside your home and into the bustling streets of the city slums. You walk down the street, only to hear the sound of a scream—
You rush to the scene: a young woman lies prone on the ground, having just been hit by a carriage. Her tattered clothes indicate her poverty; upon noticing such tatters, the driver simply moves on, and you know this to simply be a fact of this cruel life. But, you can hear something else—besides the mother's labored breathing, you can hear the sound of an infant. You roll her body over and lo—still cradled protectively is a young girl, though she will not be protected for much longer.
. . . Not unless you can help it. None else will—in these slums no one could care less if another child's life is lost—but you can do something about this. With nothing else on your mind, you pick the girl up, carrying her back to your humble abode.
Inside your apartment is a single living space without any doors—you can hear noises of the bustling life outside, as well as other people beyond the thin walls. The girl continues to cry, as though knowing to mourn, and you rock her back and forth, singing softly to your new charge to soothe her to sleep. ]
-
[ Slowly, the scene changes, fading in and out with various silent scenes—the baby cries, and in turn, the upstairs tenants knock at your ceiling; she finds her first words in your song, voice as fragile as the windpipe that carries the sound; a little toddler, she finds an injured bird and carries it home with her; you disagree on the bird's tenancy, and she storms out to run away for a little while as you regret; she returns sullenly with a secret nest built in the alley and ignores everything you say; then the wall becomes opaque. ]
[ In the corner of the room, a young girl the age of 11 crouches, looking away from you. She hums your song to the bird on her finger, which chirps along with her.
You wish you could have done better for your baby girl. But, this is what you love to do and maybe you'll get a gig that pays well enough that you two can move out of this shithole—hopefully. You tried your best to rear her, but with how infrequent you're in the house, working odd jobs in the day and performing at the pub at night, you're not sure anymore. You know she is capable of anything if she puts her mind to it—even becoming a princess—but you also know it's not easy to become a princess, and she's horribly equipped for any of that. Then again, if anything your little tyke is tough, and if anyone could be a rags-to-riches princess, it would be her. Fortunately, when she goes to the Lost Continent, she won't be alone: you, as her longtime caretaker (her one and only parent, if you may be so bold), may accompany her to her new school. You'll be her ally, her support, her greatest weapon; you'll be the one who determines her success . . . or her failure. ]
[ But just how were you able to be sponsored in the first place? . . . The story's rather funny, really.
It was when you and your girl were out and about, shopping in the market; just then, you heard the carriage, and saw it was too close to you and your daughter. You shielded her with your body, unwilling to let her die to the same fate that her mother did—
And then, by a stroke of luck, or perhaps through a miracle, the carriage managed to veer off just in time, slowing to a halt. The driver came to you to profusely apologize, and the noblewoman—perhaps looking somewhat familiar to some of you—steps out.
She took one look at your girl . . . and looked as though she'd just been struck.
She asked you both to enter the carriage, though it was more of a command then a request. With little choice in the matter, you entered the carriage with your daughter clinging tightly to you all the while; this was the first time she'd been so attached to you in ages.
The noblewoman explained herself: She is Princess Gold, the Queen of the Court. She's a professional sportsball player, although she's taken the season off to mourn . . . Her own daughter—who looked just like yours—recently passed from illness, and seeing such a familiar face, so healthy and hale, left Princess Gold speechless.
. . . Yet, through carelessness, such a face would have been dead, you not quick-footed enough and were the driver not able to change course. Princess Gold would compensate you, in any way possible.
This was your chance.
You asked her for some means of a better life for your daughter; you had nothing to your name but a few coins, and you would accept any help at all. After some thought, she agreed . . . on one condition:
Princess Gold would adopt your daughter, legally speaking. You would be assigned as her caretaker. Then, you would take her to the Lost Continent in order to receive her education there. It was the opportunity her own daughter would have taken, were she alive to do so . . .
. . . so, of course, you accepted. After all—this was your girl's chance at a better life. ]
You rush to the scene: a young woman lies prone on the ground, having just been hit by a carriage. Her tattered clothes indicate her poverty; upon noticing such tatters, the driver simply moves on, and you know this to simply be a fact of this cruel life. But, you can hear something else—besides the mother's labored breathing, you can hear the sound of an infant. You roll her body over and lo—still cradled protectively is a young girl, though she will not be protected for much longer.
. . . Not unless you can help it. None else will—in these slums no one could care less if another child's life is lost—but you can do something about this. With nothing else on your mind, you pick the girl up, carrying her back to your humble abode.
Inside your apartment is a single living space without any doors—you can hear noises of the bustling life outside, as well as other people beyond the thin walls. The girl continues to cry, as though knowing to mourn, and you rock her back and forth, singing softly to your new charge to soothe her to sleep. ]
-
[ Slowly, the scene changes, fading in and out with various silent scenes—the baby cries, and in turn, the upstairs tenants knock at your ceiling; she finds her first words in your song, voice as fragile as the windpipe that carries the sound; a little toddler, she finds an injured bird and carries it home with her; you disagree on the bird's tenancy, and she storms out to run away for a little while as you regret; she returns sullenly with a secret nest built in the alley and ignores everything you say; then the wall becomes opaque. ]
[ In the corner of the room, a young girl the age of 11 crouches, looking away from you. She hums your song to the bird on her finger, which chirps along with her.
You wish you could have done better for your baby girl. But, this is what you love to do and maybe you'll get a gig that pays well enough that you two can move out of this shithole—hopefully. You tried your best to rear her, but with how infrequent you're in the house, working odd jobs in the day and performing at the pub at night, you're not sure anymore. You know she is capable of anything if she puts her mind to it—even becoming a princess—but you also know it's not easy to become a princess, and she's horribly equipped for any of that. Then again, if anything your little tyke is tough, and if anyone could be a rags-to-riches princess, it would be her. Fortunately, when she goes to the Lost Continent, she won't be alone: you, as her longtime caretaker (her one and only parent, if you may be so bold), may accompany her to her new school. You'll be her ally, her support, her greatest weapon; you'll be the one who determines her success . . . or her failure. ]
[ But just how were you able to be sponsored in the first place? . . . The story's rather funny, really.
It was when you and your girl were out and about, shopping in the market; just then, you heard the carriage, and saw it was too close to you and your daughter. You shielded her with your body, unwilling to let her die to the same fate that her mother did—
And then, by a stroke of luck, or perhaps through a miracle, the carriage managed to veer off just in time, slowing to a halt. The driver came to you to profusely apologize, and the noblewoman—perhaps looking somewhat familiar to some of you—steps out.
She took one look at your girl . . . and looked as though she'd just been struck.
She asked you both to enter the carriage, though it was more of a command then a request. With little choice in the matter, you entered the carriage with your daughter clinging tightly to you all the while; this was the first time she'd been so attached to you in ages.
The noblewoman explained herself: She is Princess Gold, the Queen of the Court. She's a professional sportsball player, although she's taken the season off to mourn . . . Her own daughter—who looked just like yours—recently passed from illness, and seeing such a familiar face, so healthy and hale, left Princess Gold speechless.
. . . Yet, through carelessness, such a face would have been dead, you not quick-footed enough and were the driver not able to change course. Princess Gold would compensate you, in any way possible.
This was your chance.
You asked her for some means of a better life for your daughter; you had nothing to your name but a few coins, and you would accept any help at all. After some thought, she agreed . . . on one condition:
Princess Gold would adopt your daughter, legally speaking. You would be assigned as her caretaker. Then, you would take her to the Lost Continent in order to receive her education there. It was the opportunity her own daughter would have taken, were she alive to do so . . .
. . . so, of course, you accepted. After all—this was your girl's chance at a better life. ]
Re: DISCUSSION
"Just hanging out. Doing busy stuff. You know."
Re: DISCUSSION
...You ain't in trouble, by the way. If these guys're being good friends to you, then we support it. Though...hopefully you're getting up to more than just huffing paint thinner under the canal bridge, 'cause there's so much better trouble you could be getting into.
Re: DISCUSSION
" . . . I been playing games. They like to play with pucks'n sticks."
Re: DISCUSSION
Oh yeah? ...You any good at it?
Re: DISCUSSION
"I been practicing."
Shrug!!!! But she looks a little excited.
"I'm real good at keepin' it outta the goal."
Re: DISCUSSION
[Finally, recognition: even mid-apocalyptic Japan has soccer! Either way, if their baby is real good at something that sounds good]
You need pads or some kinda equipment?
Re: DISCUSSION
"How would we get that? We're poor."
Re: DISCUSSION
...Look--we're in this together. And just 'cause you can deal with it all on your own don't mean that you have to--that's all.
But we ain't letting you get kicked outta this school. Okay?
Re: DISCUSSION
She huffs, somewhat sullen, but—maybe she's hovering a little closer.
Re: DISCUSSION
These people don't know nothing about the real world. You can learn 'em a lot.
Re: DISCUSSION
Re: DISCUSSION
[She smiles, a little crooked]
I know so.
Re: DISCUSSION
". . . Yeah, okay."