My Copy Of Zeta Gundam Is Fucked Up Dude

one of my buddies is occupying a fortified position on high ground. i'm going to kick his ass with ease

Every instance of older Challia breaking character... he's so cute when it happens...

aesthetic of the day i think

listen. clutching your stupid head to my chest and stroking you. you're not a bad dog. idc what they told you, they were wrong. you're a good, sweet, brave little puppy and you've experienced things that nobody should ever go through. i'm so proud of you for making it this far and still having a heart overflowing with this much kindness. i love you so much.

princegirls are for having their tendons severed and being forced to crawl around on the ground

She presses a cup full of tea into the hands of the woman - no, the girl, she’s far younger than she is - who sits across from her. She expresses the appropriate amount of worry and concern.

‘What on earth were you doing in the garden at such a time of night?’

‘Is there anything particularly bad that led to this? I might be able to help.’

‘No, no. I insist that you remain here. It’s just good manners.’

‘Well, nothing’s more important to me than being polite and courteous.’

The girl glances at her, perturbed by her words. Nevertheless, she accepts the comfort they offer.

It changes nothing. If she wanted help, she should have done it properly, knocked at the door and asked politely. Maybe then Ophelia would have done something more. She could have given her some money, or a room for a few nights, or snuck out and killed her terrible partner or whoever, or solved any and all of her problems.

She doesn’t know or particularly care. If the girl wanted her to pay attention, she should have asked nicely.

As things stand, regardless of the cup of tea she sips from, or the borrowed coat she has draped across her shoulders to keep out the cold, or the reassuring words Ophelia smothers her in, she has been rude.

She is a trespasser, and none of the kindnesses of guesthood apply to her.

Ophelia asks her to stand and follow her. Leads her to one of the many guest rooms. This one is centrally located and well-appointed. Despite the regular use the room finds itself in, it is clean and spotless. No stains or marks on any of the carpet or bedding or upholstery.

The girl thanks her. She is praised for her humanity, for her kindness, for her politeness.

She is self-aware enough to know she only has one of those qualities.

She closes the door as she leaves. She turns and checks it. She shuts and closes and secures every one of the deadbolts and locks and mechanisms that will keep the trespasser confined.

She walks briskly to her boss and informs him of their new guest for the night.

The next evening, there are new flowers in the vases that line the hallway.

The next evening, there are new flowers in Ophelia’s hair.

The next evening, that guest room is empty once more.

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She loved The Factory. It certainly helped that she knew little else. Every day, she rose and set about her work. She assembled weapons and machines and more. She did her part, taking care of the children being raised in their little outpost. She ate and drank and worked and did very nearly nothing else.

But in this case, ‘nothing else’ is far from inconsequential.

She told the children about the stories that had been passed down from her parents. She dreamt about those stories. These stories had endured from a time where, quite unthinkably to her, The Factory had not yet expanded to assimilate their home. They talked about dragons and fools and vagabonds and knights and - her favorite - princesses. They held messages of defiance, of truth, of nobility.

She took these stories, and held them close to get through the day.

As time went on, she grew tired. These stories seemed to become more and more distant. She made things for people to use to kill each other in faraway lands. There was no meaning to her existence, no message, nothing coming to save her.

She became dull.

{And there is nothing I detest more than dullness.}

But she was rewarded. It seems as though fate {Nobility.} had taken a shine to her.

An accident happened.

Something went horribly wrong. Maybe some munitions assembly went wrong. Maybe a load-bearing beam had been built cheaply or incorrectly. The method doesn’t matter, only the results.

For the first time in her life, she steps outside.

The stories come rushing back to her. She breathes fresh air and stares at a clear sky.

She sees trees, and plants, and animals. She is entranced, and she steps into the forest.

In the stories, how often does an errant heroine wander through the woods?

Well, not too often. Usually they are relegated to the role of witless maidens to be saved.

This story is different, for it has truth to it.

She wanders, and time loses all meaning.

Roots and leaves and branches all blur into one. She could have been in there for seconds or centuries.

She steps out of the forest.

In front of her is a castle, looking as though it had been carefully copied from the ones in her dreams. Spires and towers and moats and crenellations and yet more features fill her vision.

She steps into the castle. {And I am waiting for her.}

She greets the person within in the manner she remembers from the old tales.

{I look within her, and I see her as she ought to be. She is full of lovely tales, and I am in need of some entertainment. It seems our goals align, though she is unaware of what she actually wants. I suppose I must give it to her.}

The Princess on her throne smiles at her, and opens her mouth.

She offers her a place in her domain, where she will never have to worry about dullness and boredom. Where she would never need to abandon her stories.

She accepts, of course.

{So I took her and made her suited to her purpose. It has led to such fun results.}

And she lived happily ever after.

The End.