In the dim light of the attic, Dorothy Vanderbilt, a pale, scrawny youth with wild white hair and sharp red eyes, sat on a dusty crate, relishing the gloom. To anyone else, her situation might seem unfortunate—isolated, half-starved, clothed in ragged hand-me-downs—but to Dorothy, it was ideal. For she was absolutely certain that this was a classic setup, the opening chapter of a legendary tale that would soon unfold around her.
Every creak of the old floorboards, every spider crawling in the corners, and every threadbare blanket she pulled over herself only added to the dramatic effect. In her mind, she wasn't simply Dorothy Vanderbilt, the orphaned niece forced to live in the attic of her aunt and uncle's house.
(In truth, she has a loving family that indulges her fantasies. She has her own room, yet she chooses not to use it, believing that living in the attic adds a touch of tragedy to her backstory.)
She was the tragic heroine, destined for greatness, the one who would someday wield powers beyond imagination and stand against the forces of darkness.
"Oh, I can see it now."
She muttered to herself, her eyes gleaming with a mix of fervor and fantasy.
"Someday, the world shall know my name! Dorothy Vanderbilt, the Dark Prodigy, the Slayer of Shadows, the Avenger of Orphans!"
She imagined herself standing on a distant, windswept cliff, silhouetted against a blood-red sky, her enemies quaking in terror before her. And yet, as thrilling as these visions were, she could not ignore the slight annoyance of footsteps coming up the creaky stairs.
"Dorothy? I brought you a sandwich and some milk. It's…um, not much, but you need to eat."
The door cracked open, and there was her timid cousin, Mary Vanderbilt. Sweet, gentle, soft-spoken Mary, always attempting to befriend Dorothy no matter how many times she glared, rebuffed, or scoffed at her.
Dorothy squinted at the plate Mary held out, a peanut butter sandwich and a glass of milk, and then narrowed her eyes at Mary as if to say, Why are you interfering in my tragic isolation? But Mary only stood there, looking hopeful and oblivious to Dorothy's scorn.
"Mary..."
Dorothy sighed, shaking her head with dramatic exasperation.
"Do you have any idea how difficult it is to play the role of a vengeful, tortured soul when you keep trying to make me… comfortable?"
She said the last word with disdain, as if it were poison.
Mary shuffled nervously but held out the sandwich.
"I… I just thought you might be hungry. Even vengeful heroines need to eat."
Dorothy's stomach betrayed her with a low grumble, but she remained defiant.
"A true hero would sooner starve than surrender to their oppressors' scraps."
She said, though her hand had already shot out to grab the sandwich.
"But I suppose… just this once…"
Mary smiled, watching as Dorothy devoured the sandwich with more fervor than she'd ever put into any of her dark monologues. And while Dorothy chewed, her mind was already churning up more schemes, more grand ideas.
"Mark my words, Mary."
Dorothy said through a mouthful of bread.
"This attic is merely the first step. Someday, I will have powers beyond your wildest dreams. I will uncover secrets that others dare not even whisper of. I will be the name that echoes in legends."
Dorothy's resolve melted the moment she saw the cake, thickly frosted with chocolate and tantalizingly rich. She glared at it as if trying to resist, but the temptation was too strong. In seconds, she had slipped into Mary's bedroom, casting wary glances around to ensure no one would witness her fall from the disciplined, tragic figure she had crafted in her mind.
"Just a bite."
She muttered, scooping a thick forkful of the cake into her mouth. But that bite was quickly followed by another, and another, until the plate was wiped clean, her tragic malnourished image temporarily sacrificed in favor of chocolatey bliss.
Mary sat cross-legged nearby, watching Dorothy with a pleased but slightly worried expression.
"I… I'm glad you like it, Dorothy. Just don't get sick again like last time, okay?"
"Silence."
Dorothy said between bites, crumbs scattering around her.
"One does not turn down an offering of such temptation without paying the price. Besides, even the greatest legends must sustain themselves… somewhat."
When the last bite was gone, Dorothy sighed, brushing crumbs off her fingers with an air of reluctance, as though she were performing some great tragedy. Mary watched her intently.
"You know, Dorothy."
Mary said softly.
"I'll be with you on the ferry ride. I know you like your space, but… you don't have to be alone, not really."
Dorothy scoffed, her face reverting to her usual dramatic pout.
"That's easy for you to say. You don't have a backstory filled with betrayal and dark potential. I must be alone, Mary—it is the destiny of those chosen for greatness."
"Maybe you're right."
Mary agreed, smiling gently.
"But even heroes have companions sometimes. I read it in a book."
Dorothy gave her a sidelong look, trying to suppress the hint of a smirk.
"Fine. You can come along. But know this, Mary Vanderbilt, if the time ever comes when I must make a noble sacrifice to save you and everyone else, you must let me do it. A true hero cannot avoid such fate."
Mary nodded solemnly, as if truly considering this, though she was already planning on sneaking extra sandwiches and snacks into her bag for Dorothy on the ferry ride. The two will sit there, a strange but endearing pair—one a hero in the making, the other her unwavering friend, bound to witness every act of drama, destiny, and maybe even a little chocolate-induced mischief along the way.
As Dorothy licked the last traces of frosting from her fingers from eating another piece of cake, a knock came at the door, making both her and Mary freeze.
"Mary, you haven't seen that horrid cousin of yours, have you?"
Anne Vanderbilt's sharp voice called through the door.
"We need to be ready when your father returns to take us to the harbor."
Mary quickly shot a warning glance at Dorothy and called out.
"No, Mum! She's... still in the attic. You can hear her muttering to herself."
Dorothy shot her cousin an indignant look.
"I do not mutter to myself."
She hissed, voice barely above a whisper.
"What was that?"
Anne's voice grew sharper, suspicious.
"Um."
Mary stammered.
"Oh, I—I said, I'm trying not to stutter... myself."
A brief silence followed before Anne's tone softened slightly.
"Well, don't worry, dear; I'm sure the speech therapy will help. But could you check on Dorothy and make sure she's actually getting ready this time? And don't let her eat all the cake or she'll be sick again."
Dorothy had just wiped her mouth with a napkin, looking every bit the rebellious misfit, when Mary quickly chimed.
"Uh, y-yes, Mum! I'll make sure she doesn't."
She shot Dorothy a pleading look, adding in a hushed tone.
"Please don't make this difficult. Just put on your uniform so we can get out of here."
Reluctantly, Dorothy nodded, tossing her crumb-laden napkin aside.
"Fine. But mark my words, Mary—one day, they'll all regret making me wear these uniforms. A true legend dresses in shadows, not in skirts."
Suppressing a giggle with an eye roll, Mary passed the schoolgirl uniform to her and paused to hear her mother's footsteps fading down the corridor. She regarded Dorothy with a blend of awe and slight dismay.
"You know."
Mary whispered.
"You're actually quite good at pretending to be invisible. Mum didn't even suspect you've been out of the attic."
Dorothy grinned smugly, crossing her arms.
"A proper hero must master the art of concealment. I could be anywhere, lurking in shadows, preparing to strike fear into the hearts of—"
But her theatrics were interrupted by a soft but insistent tug on her sleeve. Mary was pointing urgently to the clock on the wall.
"Oh! We'd better get ready, or Mum will come looking for you herself!"
Dorothy slipped her arms through the stiff sleeves of the FFA uniform, looking down at the dark blue fabric with thinly veiled disdain.
"What kind of tragic hero wears something as plain as this?"
She muttered, frowning as she straightened the collar.
"This is not the attire of someone destined to confront dark forces."
Mary peeked, watching her cousin grapple with the uniform as if it were an affront to her entire existence.
"I-I think you look nice!"
she offered, trying to be encouraging.
Dorothy scoffed.
"Nice? Nice is not the look I'm going for, Mary. This suit lacks… gravitas. Where are the silver buckles? The flowing cloak? The dark, mysterious flair?"
Mary looked down at her own identical uniform, puzzled.
"W-well, it has a badge!"
she offered, pointing to the small FFA crest sewn over her heart.
Dorothy squinted at the crest, as though it might be hiding some hidden meaning.
"A badge."
She said dryly.
"Yes, because the mark of a chosen hero is a small embroidered patch."
She sighed dramatically, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead.
"But it can't be helped. I shall wear this commoner's garb until my true battle attire finds me."
Mary giggled softly.
"Maybe that day will come soon! After all, every hero has to start somewhere, right?"
Dorothy straightened, adopting her most noble expression.
"Indeed, Mary. The greatest heroes often endure humble beginnings. If I must wear this uniform for now, then I will wear it with grim determination. One day, all will know this uniform was worn by Dorothy—the future legend!"
With that, she struck a pose, trying her best to exude an aura of ominous mystique. Mary clapped, her face lighting up with genuine admiration.
"Y-you really do look like someone who's… meant for greatness."
Dorothy allowed herself a small smile, pretending she hadn't noticed Mary's sparkling eyes.
"Well, I suppose I should thank you, minion."
She adjusted her collar one last time and gave a determined nod.
"But let's get moving before Aunt Anne finds us both missing. We don't want to give her more reasons to lock me up in my dreary normal room."
The two cousins scrambled to grab their bags and school supplies, stuffing textbooks, notebooks, and pens into their satchels. As they hurried down the stairs, Dorothy tossed a conspiratorial glance at Mary.
"And remember, once we step out of this house, we're no longer mere cousins. We're two warriors embarking on a perilous journey, facing unknown dangers on the open waters!"
"Um… but we're just going to the ferry…"
Mary whispered.
Dorothy grinned.
"That's what they want us to think. But every journey is a potential quest for heroism! Now, onward!"
Descending the stairs with Dorothy in the lead, her chin up in determination, they moved swiftly. Although Dorothy huffed in protest, she didn't resist Mary's urging, and together they hastened down the corridor. They weaved through the house, clutching their bags and peering around corners, all to evade Aunt Anne's vigilant watch.
Finally, after a few stealthy maneuvers and near misses, the girls reached the entryway, where they found Alfred Gwynne Vanderbilt, the head of the household and Mary's father. He was standing with his military coat draped over one arm, looking grand and imposing in a way Dorothy grudgingly admitted was impressive.
"Ah, there you are, girls. All set?"
Alfred's sharp red eyes gleamed as he looked them over, pausing on Dorothy, who looked entirely too pleased with herself.
Dorothy Vanderbilt's dramatic mind was spinning as she walked alongside her family, brushing off her uniform. Despite her complaints about her supposed mistreatment, she couldn't help but enjoy the grandeur of their magical life—after all, her uncle Alfred Gwynne Vanderbilt was a powerful figure with both wealth and influence, as a famous champion racer and a Military Colonel in the Union Colonies Forces. And the man's elegant lifestyle offered ample fuel for her elaborate daydreams.
Alfred himself was the epitome of stern authority. His white hair and piercing red eyes made him look nearly as mythical as Dorothy imagined her own future self to be. Though she wanted to be seen as the misunderstood outcast, Dorothy secretly admired his effortless command over the household.
Dorothy nodded solemnly, putting on her most tragic, mysterious expression.
"Ready as I'll ever be."
She murmured dramatically.
Anne, joining them from the hallway, rolled her eyes.
"Try not to be too melodramatic, Dorothy. It's a school ferry, not the start of some epic adventure."
Dorothy held back a smirk. Little did they know that for her, this was the beginning of her epic adventure. Today might be a ferry ride—but who knew what dangers and destinies awaited her out there? With a defiant flick of her white hair, she stepped out the door, her head held high.
Mary followed close behind, clutching her own bag and smiling at her cousin with a glimmer of pride. She might not fully understand Dorothy's obsession with her "tragic destiny," but she was determined to be there, every step of the way—even if it meant keeping an eye on her cousin to make sure she didn't get hurt or get herself killed.
As her uncle activated his gate crystal, light enveloped the group, transporting them in a shimmer to the bustling harbor, where the ferry to FFA awaited them. Reporters lingered at the edges, snapping photos and calling out questions, though they mostly fixated on Alfred.
Dorothy straightened her posture, trying to look as mysterious as possible, hoping to catch some of their attention. She imagined the headlines reading, "The Untold Story of Dorothy Vanderbilt, the Forsaken Heiress", and couldn't help a satisfied smirk.
But Mary clung close to her side, throwing a wrench in Dorothy's grand schemes. Despite everything, Dorothy felt an unexpected pang of protectiveness for her cousin. For as much as she resisted the idea of friendship, she knew that Mary's gentle heart would shield her from even the coldest of schemes.
As they boarded the ferry, Dorothy muttered under her breath.
"When the day of my ultimate battle comes, you'll be glad I kept you at arm's length, Mary."
Mary only smiled, seemingly understanding her cousin's intentions.
"I know, Dorothy. But until then, we'll face whatever comes together."
With a theatrical sigh, Dorothy relented, allowing Mary to stay close for now, but only until the next grand twist in her epic journey revealed itself.