Marionettes were usually depicted as wooden dolls of erratic movements due to their simple joints. Their faces were often static, with warped smiles and almond shaped eyes that were unnatural to normal people. This was all caused by the material used. Wood couldn't bend as hand puppets made of cloth, giving them an inhuman feel. For that reason, it was the job of a marionettist to mask that trait, giving them the fluidity to counterattack that vegetative state. But a great marionettist could go beyond that, making them reassemble real humans. Make them move like humans, feel like humans and be like one.
That's what an old, decrepit old man thought as his empty eyes gaze at his study full of dolls and marionettes . It had been years since he was able to get good material for a proper puppet. None of them had any soul. Even if they were material masterpieces, what was the point if they still acted as chunks of wood which didn't resemble people?
The old man rose from his chair and left the study. His eyes groggily moved around the small house before climbing down the stairs and heading to the kitchen.
Water. He just needed water, to let it clear up his mind.
But as the liquid travelled down his throat, nothing changed. Thirst left his mind. Now the only thoughts on his mind were those filled with worry. His hand trembled as he held the empty glass, reminding him that his illness would only get worse with time. Essential tremor would mark the end of his career. How much did he have left? A year? Less than that? How could it end before he was able to end his magnum opus?
The house creaked as it got warmer with the sunlight, making him come back to his senses.
"I just need inspiration. Once I create a puppet… the puppet, I'll make it up to her." The man steadied himself, grabbed his sketchbook and walking stick before heading out.
The residential streets didn't have many people around, much less in the late noon. Even then, it allowed for a diverse amount of people to walk through them, from kids to elders like himself. That was true for the first few times. After twenty years walking the same streets, he didn't see the same diversity. The kids grew and gained different traits. That was true. But they still had the same imperfections he didn't want in a puppet.
For a few hours until sunset, the sound of his cane reverberated through his arm until he grew tired. After following that routine so much, the man knew that he got tired around the same time he reached a small park. Everyday he got tired a bit sooner.
He sat down on a nearby bench to catch a breath and rest.
A few minutes later, he started to take in as much information as he could. Everyone he gazed upon wasn't enough. Too young or old. Too tall or short. Too thin or overweight. But he couldn't blame them, he himself wasn't even sure if what he was searching for.
As he thought this, he started sketching people in the park, carefully trying to appear inconspicuous. They all missed the traits needed for his life's work but perhaps he could remove all the unnecessary parts. But it was to no avail. Like his routine, no matter the different route he tried to take, he always ended up at that park.
"Another wasted day? I don't think I'll be able to keep this up." He thought.
After failing to sketch most of the people that were idle, he switched to the people passing through the park.
It didn't go any more different, except that he was on a time trial now. It didn't take more than a minute to pass through the small park. Couples or groups of people were more challenging, but it depended on the type. Couples walked slower, making them easier to sketch. Groups moved at different speeds, sometimes blocking the view of some, so it was a matter of identifying who was worth the sketch.
The old man readied as one pair entered the park. They looked young, not yet adults, not quite teenagers. They probably had around 16 or 17 years. Maybe a bit less. They were carrying some plastic bags, too full to be just food. But that didn't matter.
He focused on the boy first.
The boy had some good traits. A firm pose and toned legs. But his arms looked too ragged, it looked like he didn't fix his greenish hair since he had woken up and his shoes didn't match his face. He sketched his face for a few seconds, before giving up and drawing his arms.
His hands didn't like what they were drawing. Sure, those scars told a story, but it didn't match the rest of his attitude. Sighing, the man tore off the paper and focused on his partner.
With only a glance he already feared his chances. She was a somewhat short girl,with generic eye and hair colour and a childish round face. Clearly there was no need to continue sketching her. Yet his hands continued. The pencil kept going on wider arches and tilts. He kept gazing upon more things he didn't like. Why was he continuing? He didn't want a puppet with so many issues. But perhaps, on a whole, those imperfections complimented each other.
He trusted his skills. But more importantly, he trusted his hands. If they thought the drawing should continue, it would.
The sketch slowly went on to cover most of the paper, with lines that creeped on the border of the journal and others that disappeared out of it. With time, the sketch started to be lost inside the noise of erratic lines that served no purpose.
With his left hand, he stopped his opposite. And then his pencil fell down.
"I can't believe it." The old man's mind raced to comprehend what had transpired. His heart was pumping with the vigour of a youngster.
He had done it. He had the perfect sketch. The first step was down.
Hastily, with his hands trembling with fear and excitement, he closed his notebook and gathered his tools. A sudden gust of wind made the discarded pile of papers fly away to a nearby tree, but they weren't even on his mind as he grabbed a hold of his cane.
"Careful!" A girl's shout made him stop in his tracks. "Your papers went flying!"
The same girl that gave him inspiration was trying to save his failed projects from being lost.
"...Don't worry, young girl. They're of no use to me." He tried to repay in kindness what she had done to him.
"Oh." She looked like she was stopped by an invisible wall.
The young man that accompanied her soon caught up. "Well, even if you don't want them, littering the park is no good. We can still pick them up and throw them to the garbage bin."
"That's right!" The girl lit up as he handed over the bags she was holding. "Hold them for a while, okay Deku? I'll be mad if you don't hand them back."
The boy answered with a brief embarrassed laugh.
"You are right, I'll dispose of them." The elderly man answered.
She nodded determined as her hands touched each other for a brief moment, and she floated up to the tree. She gathered the papers that were closest to her before gently floating down with a slight push from her hands.
The old man looked at every one of her movements with caution. He was fearful that he would find something horrible about her the more time he spent watching her. But her quirk dashed those fears. He knew that this was it. She was perfect.
"That's a fine quirk you have." He mentioned as he grabbed the papers she was handing over.
"O-Oh, thanks! As long as it helps people, I'm happy with it." She waved off the praise as she approached the boy, Deku, again.
"Those drawings… they look nice. Are you sure you want to dump them?" The boy said, eyeing him carefully.
"I already have enough on my house. Thanks for the help." The old man quickly excused himself as he headed out of the park in the opposite direction of the couple. He heard the girl saying goodbye and as soon as he was out of their sight, he dumped the papers in a trash can.
The boy had observed him too intently. Did he perhaps recognise him? It didn't matter. His mind was already on another place. He didn't even realise that he had dumped the cane in the trash as well and that his legs were on full sprint, being fueled by ambition and excitement.
A mix of laughter and panting was the only thing that he could blurt out at the moment. He hadn't ran in years. He hadn't laughed in years. He couldn't believe what was happening, his mind only being comforted by the sketch he gripped on his hands.
Reaching his house, he barely stopped to find his keys and kicked the door down. His right leg was now limping, but he made his way up to his study. He had the perfect oak tree cut down years ago, it was properly and naturally seasoned. Beeswax was present but unneeded. You only needed beeswax to fill up mistakes. There would be no mistakes.
Just before he sat down on his working chair, leaving the sketch in front of him, he stopped and thought. "I need to tell her."
He hobbled through the upper hallway and reached the end of the corridor. He knocked three times before saying pressing himself against the door.
"I have great news. I have it. I finally have it." His tone was low, almost negligible.
There wasn't any kind of answer from behind the door.
"My leg? It's alright, I just had an issue opening the door."
The only sound of the house was the creaking of the broken front door.
For twenty minutes, he explained the details of the would be a puppet. He talked about her measures, the colour of her skin, eyes, hair… About how she had a compassionate personality, full of energy yet contained, with a power that made her float. About how everything would be natural, donated directly from his muse, from the hair to the nails including the teeth.
His face could barely contain the tears of excitement and happiness as he listened for what was not there.
"I haven't heard you so happy before… Yes, the play will begin as soon as I finish her. I can't tell you all the details about her yet, be patient."
The man headed back to his studio and closed it tight. Nothing would stop from making her happy. Nobody would. Not now that All Might wasn't there to stop him.