Disclaimer: I don't own Mai Hime nor Otome.
Ch 1:
On the twin-sized bed lay a freshly ironed red and white dress, the standard underclassmen uniform of Garderobe Academy. Just looking at it made her grimace.
As a small child, whenever she was read a fairytale about a princess, incapable of even standing without leaning against her gallant knight, Her Helplessness was always sporting a dress. Even now the girl subconsciously equated dresses with powerlessness. In comedic slapstick television, a female wearing a dress unfailingly fell and exposed her underwear to male bystanders. She felt vulnerable in a dress, feared a similar humiliating exposure of her privacy and vulnerability. Since age five, when she had learned one could not only run faster but also climb trees in shorts and pants, she had refused to wear skirts and dresses.
Although a dress in itself was painful enough, the fact this dress in particular resembled a maid's uniform sickened her more so. Even worse, while a standard maid's uniform was demeaning, denoting low social hierarchy and servitude, the frilly, revealing dress before her was reminiscent of a stereotypical French maid's uniform.
Her chest tightened, muscles tensed, and hands clenched. A month ago she never would have imagined herself in this situation, forced to attend a boarding school, let alone one that mandated this getup as a uniform.
Perhaps her downfall had been inevitable, however. Recklessness was often, at one point or another, tripped up by consequences. Though she'd needed the practice for her upcoming race, she should've waited until the roads were less damp. Barreling down the interstate at 160 km/h, she'd skidded and collided with the median. The paramedics were shocked she'd survived. The police were shocked she was two years shy of driver's license eligibility and, despite also being three years shy from the minimum age of legal emancipation, had no parents or guardian. They were further shocked to discover that she was one of the reigning champions on the local superbike street racing circuit. The girl was more shocked than either the paramedics or police. Her beloved Ducati 999 was beyond repair.
The police chief came in person to talk to her in the hospital.
"Don't you have anyone?" he had asked. "No family? No friends?" This girl, with blazing green eyes and a carelessness that bordered on suicidal, intrigued him.
"I never knew my father. I'm not sure my mom knew who he was. She died when I was five. Cancer. I was in the foster system for five years of hell before I got smart enough to run. I started street racing for the money. And the thrill. That's pretty much it."
He studied her for a moment in silence. "If you stick me back in the system I'll run," she warned in the same matter-of-fact, detached tone.
"I'm feeling generous and I admire your independence. Few kids would've had the balls to pull off what you have for so long. I'll compromise. Instead of placing you in the care of a single individual or couple, you may opt to enroll in a boarding school instead. You'll receive the protection, guidance, and care of multiple individuals at such a place. Hopefully they'll also give you the sensibility, social skills, and standard education I suspect you lack."
"Hmm. . . I've always been curious about a military academy. . ." the girl mused. She wondered if the handling of firearms was stressed at a military academy. A fire seemed to be kindling within her green eyes.
"No. As part of the deal, I choose the institution. No military academies. If you enjoyed it, it wouldn't be a punishment . . . which is generally what one receives for breaking laws. You also need to attend an academy that stresses community service, as that should be part of the sentence for your underage driving and illegal racing. Based on your skills with machines, physical capabilities, and intelligence, I'll recommend that the judge forces you to enroll at Garderobe Academy for otome. Perhaps one day you'll uphold a country's laws rather than crush them beneath motorcycle wheels."
He smirked. "I've got an even better idea. The Academy is, to put it bluntly, expensive as hell. I do believe your race winnings will be just enough to cover the tuition."
So here she was, standing in her new dorm room, enrolled three weeks after the fall term had officially started. The judge had told her she should thank her lucky stars to be given this opportunity. Girls were often placed on the school's waiting list as toddlers, and only a select few received high enough marks on the entrance exam. The police department or judge must have been owed a favor by the school's principal. The biker was enrolled without even sitting in on the infamous entrance exam.
She glared at the uniform and felt on the verge of physical sickness. She recalled, vaguely, hearing that otomes were bodyguards to royalty; the action behind a prime minister's words; the executor of a government's policies. A maid's uniform?
It had taken her an hour to peel off her comfortable, baggy clothing and force herself into the uniform, centimeter by centimeter. Never before had she realized how much she took her jeans, T-shirts, and sneakers for granted. The uniform felt tight, constricting on her upper torso. She had always preferred casual, loose clothing, especially after puberty hit her two years ago. Even now she was uncomfortable with her curves. While most girls would've been glad to fill her cup size, all she could think was how much freer her arms could move across her chest, how much faster she could run, how much more aerodynamic she'd be while biking, without those damn breasts.
She glanced into the mirror and hastily pulled her blue black hair back into a tight ponytail. She took a moment to scowl at herself, wishing she hadn't looked. It would've been easier not knowing how she looked in the outfit; she could've been blissfully ignorant.
Sometimes she wondered how people would act if they were unaware of how they physically looked, if self-consciousness was removed completely as a factor of people's personalities and actions. And what if everyone was blind, if no one knew how others around them looked, if suddenly appearances held no weight? That's partly why she loved racing. All the racers were the same, anonymous beneath helmets and bodysuits. Appearances meant nothing. It was all about the engine and the guts.
She snapped herself out of her bizarre musings and grabbed a crumpled white paper on the nearby desk, a map of Garderobe. While everyone else was in second period according to her watch, she was due for an appointment in the medical wing.
Walking across the campus, she reveled in the silence and solitude while admiring the neatly kept flower beds and swept walkways. She shuddered to think how her surroundings would differ when the walkways were jammed with students and the flower-fragrant air marred by their prattle.
"You there, stop!" the harsh female voice behind her tarnished the quiet. It was as if the silence had been gutted like a hunted animal. The girl frowned and wheeled towards the voice. It belonged to a petite platinum blonde wearing a uniform identical to hers.
"Just who are you and what are you doing?" the blonde demanded, her pale blue eyes venomous. Her shoulders were raised and hands balled into fists. She leaned aggressively towards the dark haired girl that stood just a meter in front of her.
The biker girl did not take aggression well. She had learned, in the system as well as on the streets, backing down enticed antagonists as blood enticed sharks.
"Until you tell me your name, I will not yield mine," she growled in response to the blonde.
"You . . . y-you don't know who I am?" the blonde sputtered, fury strangling her speech. "Everyone knows of me! I am the number three coral, Duchesse Fleur Blanc d'Florince!" The flowery name perfectly harmonized with its owner's appearance. The delicate nose, long eyelashes, plump lips, perfectly positioned cheekbones, and the meticulously fashioned fountain of pale, white yellow curls combined to form the epitome of classic beauty.
Fleur's dazzling eyes narrowed, fixated on the stranger's left earlobe. "You do not know who I am and you do not have a coral GEM . . . you are an imposter trying to infiltrate Garderobe!"
"Imposter? I'm Natsuki Kruger, a transfer student. What the hell's a-"
Before she could finish, Fleur lunged at her. "As the number three Coral, it is my duty to defend Garderobe and deter any intruders!" Instinct, aided by experience, kicked in just in time. Natsuki dodged Fleur, but her eyes widened in surprise. The attack itself did not faze her, but its speed did. She had never seen anyone move so fast.
She didn't have time to process these thoughts. Her attacker lunged again, and this time Natsuki wasn't nimble enough. The punch caught her square in the stomach. She couldn't breath. The air had been ripped from her lungs. Her knees caved in beneath her as her arms involuntarily clutched her abdomen.
Fleur's cockiness cost her that fight. After her initial assault, with her opponent kneeling before her, Fleur believed Natsuki had been effectively overpowered. With only one punch she couldn't stand. For good measure she kicked Natsuki square in the back from behind, sprawling Natsuki onto the merciless bricks.
Fleur planted a foot in Natsuki's back and brought her weight down upon it. She was annoyed Natsuki didn't even groan, but concluded that she was probably already unconscious. Smiling to herself, she momentarily basked in her moment of combative triumph. She touched her earring, and Natsuki heard it beep. "Now I'll just contact the Trias, and they can deal. . ."
With her enemy distracted, Natsuki sprung. Before she could register what happened, Fleur found herself lying on her back with Natsuki straddling her. Natsuki didn't play nice. She went for Fleur's face, depositing a punch that would yield a black eye in a few hours. Before rendering Fleur unconscious with a blow to the head, she muttered, "Be grateful I didn't break your nose." As Fleur's body went limp, Natsuki heard approaching footsteps. Her whole upper body was screaming in agony, but Fleur hadn't injured her at all below the waist.
Within a minute three girls in gray dresses arrived at the scene to find an unconscious number three Coral. Only two sharp crimson eyes caught a flash of blue black hair, gleaming in the sun as it disappeared behind a nearby building.