Michaela Jackson is part human, part metal.
Hale Romanoff is a naive victim of an assault.
Nicholas Crawford is an incompetent bastard.
Jackson Crawford is an underage king.
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J A K E C R A W F O R D
No way. No way. No way.
Ew.
"Father, what is he talking about? I will not marry a dolphin," I cry. Father stares at me for one or two seconds, then frowns.
"They aren't dolphins, they are Merman. Address them properly, they might as well be calling us apes or chimpanzees," The lecture starts.
I roll my eyes. Whoever they might be, or whatever they might be, I have my eyes set on homo sapiens. Not Ariel the Mermaid.
Unexpectedly, the Mer-whatevers go to our different thrones. The blue-mers go to The Rule Of Ecuador, the green-mers go towards The Central Congo Union, the purple-mers head towards The Democracy Of Australia, the red-mers approach us and the colourful-mers visit The Republic Of Britain. That was King Cornelius's family. What could they possibly want? Well, their hearts couldn't be uglier than their clothing.
A large, grey tunic encase King Cornelius's body, followed with a colourful robe that has been lined with sparkling blue diamonds. Tassles are hanging at the end of the sleeve, coloured blue as well. His feet bear thin soled leather sandals that lock until his mid-calf. His trousers have been worn underneath his sandals, fluffing up at the sandals end. How majestic.
Comparatively, we dressed up quite well. Father wears silver metal boots, reaching his thigh. He wears his brown pants underneath, barely shown. His red tunic covers it, wrapped firmly around by a gold belt, holding his scabbard. A jewelled gold sword is tucked in it. His medals of honour are pinned to his breast pocket, a parade of colours. Alas, a gold robe is tied around his neck, beginning with white fur.
Fit for a king.
The red-mers consist of a mother and a daughter. Both have the mischevious smile that dart me and Father every now and then.
They have red hair and pure, white skin.
But I don't find traces of brown hair and tanned skin.
The younger girl has pure chocolate brown eyes, with eye bags
But I cannot see skies and trees in her eyes, underlined with dark circles.
Her lips are cupid in shape.
But I don't see a puckered, dehydrated mouth.
Her nose is a perfect curve.
But I don't see a flawed, bumped, beautiful nose.
"What you staring at, Prince Charming?" Her smirks becomes smirkier than Nicholas's.
Imagine Mika saying that. Slowly, I morph her face to the right features, revealing my dream girl.
