Chapter 1: Abraham Lincoln is a tremendously handsome guy
Our protagonist did not understand it at all. It happened so fast and so suddenly!
In one moment she was there living contently, working hard to get things up to par and to make something of herself. In the next … it was all gone.
She felt deep within that she had actually died. She did not remember how it happened, but she was certain of it: she lived another life, she wasn't meant to wake up in this new and foreign place.
She was certainly not meant to do so as a young child!
She pinched herself once, twice, and experimentally punched herself so she would get out of whatever spectacular lucid dreaming she'd put himself into, hoping that that was it, and she would wake peacefully in her bed.
But the pain felt all too real, and she groaned as she sat herself on the floor rubbing the place which would undoubtedly bruise in a few hours. She glanced around the room and found herself a mirror, treading in the direction of it, skipping, jumping and swaying away from a more-than-respectable (yes, there is a respectable number!) amount of stray clothes.
The finger-stained mirror and funky-smelling conditions told her that either the lass that looked back at her lived with terrible, irresponsible people, or that she lived alone.
The image in the mirror was so cute, though! The girl had a very pretty (even though it was unkempt for now) fair hair, and one eye of each colour: one blue, the other green.
She felt a bit sad for a moment when she finally spotted the clear signs of abandonment on her.
"I'm sorry about punching you, little girl," she said, before pausing. "Unless, you too, are a figment of my imagination. If so, then **** you, too!" she completed, before bursting onto a spontaneous fit of giggles.
And then she paused again. Last she remembered, the last time such a joyful and ridiculous sound came from her mouth was when her niece finally learned to babble her name–she thanked God she was playing with her on the park, without any of her relatives near them when her niece had said it.
The thought of her seemed like a distant memory … Even while she concentrated on it, it seemed to get away. She felt frightened at that, and repeated the name of her loved ones aloud: once, twice, thrice, ten times over.
When she got to the tenth time, she noticed she had already forgotten a few of the names …
At that moment, in that dark and smelly room, she vowed to herself:
She would never, never … ever, ever do drugs again!
There was no other explanation. It felt all too real.
No, that wasn't quite right. It felt all too surreal!
She never liked drugs, and she certainly couldn't see herself getting into them as she became older. But it was all too strange and palpable for it not be a product of an extremely elaborate bad trip.
"Don't do drugs, kids!" she said to no one; or to the hundreds of people who would read this story–meh, one can dream. "And especially, don't trivialise them as nothing," she said, still to no one; or, to you, I would wager.
She blinked twice and opened her mouth.
"Oh my God, what if I'm losing it? I never did like drugs–have I gone mental, finally?"
She had a few existential crises, and tried to solidify the memories of a past life that eluded her each second more, and blah, blah, blah. But that was not very interesting, at all.
After all, the rule of fiction is the rule of cool. This lady would not be selected for this wondrous journey had she not a character and manner fitting for this great story.
We–that is: me, the author, and you, the reader–dearly hope that she can shine through the cracks of this crack story, and make something of herself–Mary Sues are okay, but they are not very fun to read about; and I'm really not in the mood to write about the dearth of congruence and the tragedy of the world of shinobi, so let's hope our hero's journey falls somewhere in the middle.
Oh, and she finally straightened-up, so we can finally get on with the story. Prologues and introductions and reflections on a past life are cool on, like, the first seven times you read about them–this story shall not have this!
Or it shall, but sprinkled here and there–the time now is of action.
The child washed her face, put on her least smelling clothes and got ready to brave the day. She felt a bit frightened, but trusted that there would be an end to this, whatever it was–she hoped it was a dream, and would certainly live betting on that; for now, at least.
Nothing was purposeless, everything had a meaning; she was a nice person, she paid her taxes, she had a nice job, she had people that cared for her. Providence, fate, the weird dude writing about her, or the randomness of fan-fiction would make everything right in the end. She smiled wide as she opened the curtains to let the light in.
And she looked at the scene with a very funny expression etched onto her face.
There, in the distance, four heads sculpted on the side of a mountain looked regally towards the great city that sat at its steps.
She had never travelled to visit it, but even she knew a thing or two about Mt. Rushmore, where the Americans had sculpted their presidents on the side of a mountain.
"Well, that's fine, I think. I could do a lot worse than being reborn in the USA!"
And, oi, the fourth guy was seriously pretty! Man, she really needed to brush on her World History lessons – there was no way that dude was meant to be Abraham Lincoln.
But … strange, why were there so many Japanese signs everywhere?
And that, my dear readers, is what we call a presage for a very weird, very strange, very dumb (at times), and hopefully fun adventure!
She decided she would enjoy this trip while it lasted.
Which perhaps only explained … no, scratch that. Which barely explained at all, why she went out the door mumbling 'USA, USA' as she faced this brave and new world.
It was good that she took this in great stride. It would be a pain if anyone less joyful than our dear protagonist was chosen to embark into this adventure.
She supposed that 'when in Rome, do as the Romans do' should apply in America, too. Granted, she only had very superficial knowledge of what meant to be American, which was mainly informed by memes and the internet, but that would have to do for now.
She was indeed precious in her own endearing way. It bordered on offensive, and then it jumped the wall to get in.
But believe me, dear reader: she only meant the best with it, with what she had–that it hadn't amounted to much was only a minor detail.
Or as famous American philosopher once succinctly summed up:
'Stupid is as stupid does.'
Wise words indeed.