She did not know her name, nor did she care to.
Plenty of other children here lived namelessly.
The adults called this place the Underground Jail.
She often overheard their stories of a world atop the surface, bathed in sunlight. One particular neon city cratered upon impact of the seed and sank beneath the ground.
This warped place was home to monsters called Marchens. These beasts attacked, pursued, and captured humans unlucky enough to encounter them.
Subsequently, most children who lived within the confines of the underground city were orphaned.
This naturally led to a crisis of identity.
Some never relinquished hope. A faction was formed, called the Dawn Liberation Force, to combat the growing threat of Marchens.
The Dawn gathered members over time, soon establishing a safe zone wherein they were free from invasive monsters.
Periodically the Dawn sent reconnaissance groups to find survivors and guide them to what became known as the Liberated District.
She was among those saved by the Dawn.
A nameless orphan who would soon realize just how special she truly was.
◯ (There... Another one.)
On the outskirts of the Liberated District.
Standing alone on the cliff of a tall hill, she hoped this place would provide a brief haven from Marchens. She shut her eyes, hoping to “see” it unfold.
A few years passed since the formation of the Liberated District.
An orphanage was established, and three sisters were taken in.
Their names were Thumbelina, Snow White, and Sleeping Beauty.
(They must be Blood Maidens.)
Through contemplation she realized these girls were special.
When she closed her eyes, she could see into someone’s entire story. Their history.
This power extended to a state of omnipresence, allowing her to see through the eyes of another.
To her, they came as dreams.
But this sight was applicable to limited subjects.
Red Riding Hood and Cinderella were the most prominent subjects of these visions.
Both had been taken in by the Dawn, and possessed special abilities.
When exposed to Marchen blood, their eyes emitted a pink glow. Their strength increased tenfold, making them the ideal counter to Marchen threat.
Higher-ups at the Dawn dubbed these Marchen-bred super-soldiers, “Blood Maidens.”
They shared two commonalities: peak physical aptitude, and names derived from classic fairy-tales.
No Blood Maiden was named. It was inherent from birth.
Red Riding Hood.
Little Mermaid.
Cinderella.
Some Blood Maidens were taken by tragic circumstances, but nevertheless the Dawn worked to locate and rescue any they could find.
This girl, lost in solemn thought by herself on the cliff, saw that they would be taken by the Dawn.
Years ago, she watched the past histories of the Dawn’s top brass.
They led a bold charge against the Marchens, and mounted a full-scale exploration of the tower.
None survived.
Now, the finer details faded from her memory. She saw the Dawn as the force of good, the catalyst to save the world from demise.
But this evaluation was incorrect.
In truth, this responsibility fell upon the shoulders of the Blood Maidens.
Every time she accessed her visions, they centered on the Blood Maidens from a bird’s-eye view.
It began with Red Riding Hood, Little Mermaid, Cinderella, and continued with Thumbelina and the others.
Others, she anticipated, were soon to follow.
What would become of them?
How would this story end?
“Perhaps,” she suspected, “I am a Blood Maiden too.”
Having never been exposed to Marchen blood, it was impossible for her to test.
But she trusted her vision. She knew it was a power no one else possessed.
Is it possible she too was a Blood Maiden?
However, she was quick to reject the notion.
For some reason, her name was unknown to her.
At the time of each Blood Maiden’s induction to the Dawn, each girl provides her name to the organization.
This fact alone was enough for her to deny the possibility.
Every protagonist has a name.
“But I don’t. That’s why I can’t be a Blood Maiden. I am just an observer.”
Instead, she remained content to watch.
　 ◯ Little did she know, her time as an observer would soon give way to a story of her own.
The wheels of time turn once more.