Mysterious Space Girl

Only insofar as her pale, flawless skin and feathery mop of fine, white-blonde hair stood out among her apparent peers would the girl’s slight figure be immediately discernible from any mundane, if curious youth. But for eyes of purest ivory - iris differing from sclera only in the distinct, but familiar radial texture and faintly outlining border - she might be anyone. She might be a composite of humanity, or a tabula rasa upon which the template of humankind could be impressed. Pretty, faintly androgynous, of indeterminate age somewhere on the barest threshold of adulthood. Small, even diminutive, narrow in shoulder and hip.

Even her clothing - simple, loose fitting, soft, comfortable, and almost uniformly rendered in monochrome with at most the barest suggestion of pale colors - gives the impression of a being so without identity as to depend entirely on context. A mystery of defaults.

But as a still image can only project its implicit meaning unto the eye of the beholder, a being in animation must define itself unto the universe by character and action alone. And what the girl lacks in visible color she makes up for in a strange and vibrant personality.

She radiates positivity and enthusiasm, fascinated by even the most mundane things. Driven by a boundless curiosity, an unending need to learn new things and collect new experiences combined with reckless and impulsive behavior, all constrained by an intellectual capacity somewhere between a distracted upper university student and a particularly clever dog. She is clingy, latching on to people for reasons known only to herself. Indeed, much of her behavior in general is baffling. Incomprehensible to the human mind as though borne from a completely different - or completely illogical - basis of consciousness.

Capricious, fiercely loyal, explosively violent, prone to equal parts overprotection and obedience to those whom she feels some kind of connection. Erratic, unpredictable, and unspeakably dangerous.

For the girl, unassuming as she may appear, is not human. Indeed, she is something so alien to human comprehension - to the very laws of physics - as to constitute a logical impossibility. A manifestation of paradox itself - composed of material which is neither biological, nor artificial. A physiological enigma that defies comprehension. A being which is, arguably, neither alive, nor dead, nor anything in between. A being of such inconceivable power as to border on the divine. An entity composed not of matter, constrained by the laws of reality within which it exists, but the opposite - one which imparts its own existence onto reality in blatant defiance of the universal laws that govern all things.

And yet, she is a youth. Not a child, but incomplete - unaging, effectively unchanging. Lacking. Constrained by the impulsive, needful mind of an adolescent, made wise not by the mindbogglingly vast span of her existence, nor the overwhelming magnitude of the history of which she once played a most central role - but by the sheer, bullheaded persistence and purity of the uncorrupted youth. Wise in the unconventional, preposterous way that only those untethered from the burdens of responsibility and consequence, unjaded by lifetimes could be.

But for all her expansive power - capabilities which dwell within her as latent and inherent as her strange mind - she is more fragile than a feather on the wind. More fleeting than a passing thought, there and gone before the synapses can make it real. She is the surface of a soap bubble - strange and buoyant, carefree and volatile. She wields the powers of ancient gods, and barely understands the concept of doorknobs. She will kill with impunity on command, unleash hidden forces to decimate the opposition of those she believes she must protect - and marvel with the wonderstruck awe of a child at the antics of a sparrow.

She has dwelt in complete solitude for millennia, cursed to wander the arid ruins of a world lost to time and space, condemned in the last, dying days of her civilization to stand vigil over the desolation of a world laid waste by those who would defend the nature of reality from their invasive presence. Her sins. The sins of her fathers, her makers, and their makers before them. The sins of he who made them in his image, in the not-place between the end of one universe and the beginning of the next.

She looks like you, but she is not like you. She will kill for you. She will protect you. She will delight in your company, cling to you with the needful desperation of the loneliest, most isolated being in the universe. She knows nothing of your culture - indeed, of your world - but she is eager to learn every infinitesimal facet. She cannot speak your language, yet she will hang on your every word. She is the last of The First. She is someone, and she is no one. She could be anyone.

She could be yours.

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