“Show restraint,” my father often says. “Restraint is class. Restraint fits a decent Jungfrau like a nice modest dress.”
Good old Papi. Maximilian Leonard von Krieger-Witthoffen. Baron zu Ledensburg. He knows very well that I’ll always choose a greasy mechanic’s overalls over the best dress—even an immodest one. Yet he still sees me as his little girl. Sure, he does call me his wild child sometimes (when his monocle is in place, I presume). But, seriously… Wild? I have a degree in engineering! I’m just a bit temperamental and uninhibited. Sorry, not sorry.
My father is of noble birth—and of noble soul. He’s a brilliant scientist, an underrated and misunderstood genius. His exploits are to advance humanity’s knowledge. And yet, the crooks of the Alliance are trying to hunt him down. They dare attack his base and distract him from his work, wasting his precious time. I’m sure it’s all driven by that malicious woman and her personal vendetta against my father. What was her name… Evillanelle?
What’s the point in exercising restraint? Papi showed them mercy several times. They aren’t learning from experience. (And jerry-rigging their uninspired crackling tracked gizmos doesn’t count.) Yet they are so overconfident that they’re about to assault us once again, thinking that the worst-case outcome would be just getting schooled and embarrassed.
Time to change the approach a bit. Add injury to insult. Zap these Harrier pests even harder. And if I hurt some of them… Consider it a sacrifice in the name of science. And if—God forbid—they know about my father’s absence and hope to win against his assistant… Well, they’re in for a ton of nasty surprises.
Papi is too much of an idealist. That’s no wonder: He’s a theoretician. The brain. He devises powerful and magnificent machines. I am different. I’m the hands that build those machines. Hands can be caring—but they can also hit. I LOVE to get physical. And I can hit way harder than my father.
They’re probably thinking they can corner me on my home turf. Really? Ha sparklin’ ha. When the Harriers invade my personal space, I’ll send over some presents into their world. Several thousand will do. I was the one who made and fine-tuned mass-produced minion tanks. What they certainly don’t expect is mass-produced Waffenträgers.
Dearest Diary, if only you could think and speak… You’d likely cry in terror (and awe?): “Oh, Ermelinda! You’re about to start some major mayhem! What will your father say once he’s back from his adventures—to see all the sweet, exquisite, delicious destruction you’ve caused?”
Well, Diary, I may be all-powerful and incredibly bright, but I’m still my Papi’s little girl. And lonely little girls are often frolicking about. My experience tells me I’ll get away with this mischief…
As easily as one zaps a bug.