"Adolescence Post-Apocalypse"

Author's Note: I have no idea if I made it, but here it is. The "Adolescence Post-Apocalypse" was more of a transitional piece in my mind. I opted to disregard "Adolescence Apocalypse" in all but the title, because I was more interested in that period between Utena's adolescence and adulthood that would come after the end of the initial series. I do retain one element that I find particularly striking from that, however, so in a way, this might be taken as an alternate continuity. It isn't very long at all, and went in a different direction than I had initially envisioned, but here it is. I chose to adopt a style that favored a good dose of symbolic elements and an insistence on vagueness about many things, as it fit my intentions. Just to note, the titles are lines borrowed from Amaran songs, and the drop-down menu chapters are the song titles. Hope you enjoy.

Prologue
(I Received a Kiss from My Maker's Lips)

She woke up without a name.

The ceiling was plain and white. It's somewhat rugged texture was the only thing that even betrayed its presence. The blankness of it, the nondescript sight of it mirrored her mind closely. As it had been then and many more times that she didn't recall, she had woken up without a name to that white ceiling.

She did have something to be called by, however. They called her 'girl.' Maybe that was her name – Girl. But that was more of an idea, more about things that pertained to other things; and those, she knew she'd know nothing about. Perhaps she had known, once. Back when she was whole, she might have known.

Or maybe that was their way of being polite. Girl, not yet Woman, stuck in the limbo of an out-of-context adolescence, between whoever she used to be, and whoever she was now, whoever that was supposed to be.

That was the strangest thing for her. She could talk. She remembered how to do things, things like eating politely, or trying to move, if just a little bit to help them change her bed pan, and asking how they were when she saw them. She was sure that she could walk, that she actually knew how to. She just couldn't move enough to test that notion just yet.

She remembered anecdotes about this and that. She knew a hundred stories, mostly fairy tales and about princes and princesses. She remembered revolutions. Crack the egg's shell – that was something that mattered, because if you didn't, the chick inside would die without being born (but the eggs they brought her to eat had the remains of dead chicks that never could crack the shell.)

All this, and she didn't remember her name. She didn't remember how old she was, where she had come from, if she had a family somewhere (though the mere mention of the word brought her a deep ache, deeper than most of her other aches.) She didn't know why she broke down into tears when she smelled roses. She couldn't remember what had happened to her that had ended her up in the Convent, bed-ridden for months, maybe years or maybe eternity.

They had said it was an accident that had made her what she was now: hideous and deformed. Scars lined every inch of her flesh, marking the passing of something she didn't remember; distorting her skin, covering her face, riddling her cheeks and chin and neck and eyes and arms and hands and feet and legs and breasts and every other place with lines upon lines, all of the same width. At least she had retained some sense of symmetry, she often mused.

Her pink hair wasn't cut boy-short because the nuns didn't know how to do it otherwise. It just didn't grow beyond that anymore.

Still, she considered herself rather lucky, all things considered. She could at least sit up by herself after what they had told her had been five months. It took a lot of effort, brought a lot of pain, but she could sit up. Her legs were a week shy of coming out of the casts, she had been told, but it'd be months and months before she could walk again... if she walked again at all (although she was sure that she could.)

The sound of the double doors of the ward opening brought her to. She propped herself up on her elbows, causing the nun to quicken her steps to put down the tray she was carrying somewhere. To help Girl. But Girl hated needing that help, so she forced it. Her shoulders and traps began to scream as she adjusted herself. Her hands touched the pure white sheets (always pure white, without fail, even when she didn't see anyone change them) and her wrists sent sharp shivers down her spine. Her back protested against this change in alignment, assaulting her torso with a relentless torrent of agonizing needles.

Like a thousand swords made of hate, she always thought.

When she managed to sit up, the nun, her face obscured as it always was, came to her side. She gently placed the tray on her lap. Eggs, lentil soup, bread, plain rice, water, an apple. Smiling, Girl began to unwrap the napkin that was holding her utensils. She could do it without having to clench her teeth shut to keep from screaming.

The nun sat down to the adjacent bed. They always kept her company while she ate.

"Thank you." Girl said, "I know it's not enough, to just say that."

"Nonsense. You have never been a burden."

Without objection, Girl began with the soup. It was delicious. Everything was delicious now that she could eat by herself.

"It's delicious." She said, "As always."

"It's a meager meal, I know. We just don't have anything else."

"It's not like that. It's plenty. I don't even know how I'll ever repay you, so don't start."

"You don't have to repay us, Girl." the nun said, "We are just doing what we must. Nothing more. You don't owe us payment."

"If you say so." The Girl said, reluctant.

The nun reached for the Girl's bedside and turned on the small, old radio resting there. Girl smiled as she finished the soup – ah, yes, that time again.

There was a nameless radio show (Have You Heard? would be a good title, Girl always thought, but it wasn't strictly a gossip talk-show) that came on ten minutes after a nun, like clockwork, brought her lunch.

After the fairly short jingle, a voice came through the speakers.

"Have you heard? Have you heard?" one of the hosts, a woman, asked.

"Have you heard the news?" she continued, joined by her companion.

"The search for the long-lost prince continues." the second companion said.

Ah, a new chapter. "The Long-Lost Prince" was an untitled storyline they had stuck to for some time now, or perhaps ever since Girl had started listening.

There was a brave, courageous and noble prince involved. Apparently, this guy had faced an enemy who held his princess captive. The prince had fought valiantly, but he had fought like princes are wont to do – nobly, honestly, cleanly. Utterly blind to the fact that his enemy could only be defeated by being more corrupt than him. The prince had lost the duel, and with it, had gotten lost himself. He had, however, managed to set the princess free, and she had gone looking for him. Unable to find him, she had then returned to the Evil Prince's kingdom. Girl didn't know why – to keep an eye on the Evil Prince? To slowly eat away at his lot from the inside until it collapsed? To hatch a conspiracy? The princess' motivations were unclear.

It was meaningless drivel to her, of course, but having nothing but time to think on her hands, Girl was following the story earnestly. It had become a rather pleasantly meaningless kind of drivel over the weeks.

"Oh, the princess despairs still! If only there was a sign!"

"One of her companions has joined the search, though."

"How much longer will she endure the absence of her prince? With nobody looking, and everybody having looked everywhere, there seems to be no end in sight to the search!"

"If they had looked everywhere, the prince'd be found – like I said, one of her companions has an idea."

"The pretender, irredeemable, still plays his games and entertains himself with duels for his new bride! The duelists are but puppets in his hands, forced to fight for his entertainment!"

"They're not gladiators, you know."

"If only she could challenge him herself!"

"But girls shouldn't fight with swords."

"Her hands bound, she waits in her chambers, desolate, waiting for word to reach her! She has hope that this time, it will happen!"

"Didn't you say nobody was looking?"

"That's right! And when nobody's looking is when the magic happens!"

"That's what I've been saying all this time! Haven't you heard a word of it?"

"Haven't you heard? Haven't you heard? Haven't you heard the news?"

With the show done, it switched to music. A piano piece that often served as the show's outro. The nun shut it off quicker than Girl could feel something stirring in her chest. The Girl finished her lunch quickly, thanked the nun, and watched her leave. She laid back down to face the white ceiling. She closed her eyes, perchance to let herself drift away.

There was a name on her lips, at the tip of her tongue, tasting divine.

She dreamt the forgotten dream, forgotten like everything else but coming to haunt her whenever she closed her eyes. The dream she had lived with in her new home.

Someone was drowning in the background.

"Seeing you is like seeing myself in the past."

The tune of dead horses, circling around the body of water.

"I was like you, once."

Ahead, the Rose Seal. Someone was almost drowned.

"I thought persistence had merit."

She recognized the sound.

"That it was the best way to change the world."

She remembered that it had followed her...

"But just that alone cannot change anything."

...it had followed her all the way down.

She jerked awake without a name.