Alto’s Last Stand
Alto stared into the dressing room mirror, but he wasn’t seeing anything anymore. His tired vision looked past the graying circles under his eyes, and his luxurious hair pulled out in clumps as he aimlessly brushed it. To an objective, outside observer, he was as beautiful as ever. But the stress of the Miss Macross competition was starting to take its inevitable toll.
What a pipe dream this was all turning out to be! That rosy-cheeked bastard Luca had put on a sympathetic face when Alto shot down Mikhail’s Valkyrie, killing him instantly.
If it hadn’t been for the smug little punk throwing himself between Alto’s face and Ozma’s fist, there would be no Kabuki fallback career for the Princess, no matter how much makeup there was in the world. Shame his young face was so ruined now, right alongside Ozma’s shattered life.
But sympathy wasn’t something Alto felt deserving of. He felt like he was taking advantage of the entire world, slacking off thanks to his own ineptitude. Advantage of dead Michel, who he’d killed himself. Advantage of Sheryl, who’d pulled the strings to get him into the contest so late. Even her.
In another life, a life not lived singing endless retreads of Minmay jingles, Alto thought that perhaps the two of them could have been friends, if not… more. But here in the heat of competition, that heartless bitch wouldn’t give him the time of day, except to attack him in one of their many physical confrontations.
Not that she needed to be so cruel — her maddeningly cute and disturbingly expressive bunny-ear hair gave her an unfair advantage that no one in the contest was ready for.
A knock came at his dressing room door.
“What is it,” he moaned.
“Let me in, I need to talk to you.” Speak of the green-coiffed Devil, and so shall she appear at your door. Alto’s jaw tightened, and he made a little grunting noise like everyone in Shakugan No Shana does when the camera cuts to them.
“It’s open,” he growled.
Ranka opened his door in her usual domineering but somehow graceful way. Though she stood no higher than his shoulder (an advantage he was more than willing to count his blessings for), her authoritative and overbearing personality made her appear larger than life. The swimsuit competition was tonight, and she was wearing a pink bikini that was fairly demure for the competition, but nonetheless looked downright dirty on her. Maybe it was her, or maybe it was the fact that she looked about 12.
Alto didn’t feel much like a woman when he looked at her in that thing. He felt the strain of his own sexual duality pushing feebly against the fabric of his underoos.
“You like what you see,” she sneered at him with bloodshot half-opened eyes, “or you just scared of how bad this is gonna crush you tonight?” Alto grimaced as the stench of old vodka finally made its way across the room to his finely-shaped nostrils.
“Eh,” Ranka scoffed, “Who am I kidding? You’re just a no good trap-ass fag, anyway.” Alto’s grimace of disgust turned into a drooping sigh of defeat. Night after night of this, eventually it wore him down. His perfect eyeliner and tasteful mascara were suddenly at great risk. Moisture built up in his eyes until they appeared to shake, or at least that’s how they were represented by the animators.
“I guess I won’t be seeing much of you anymore, since you’re going to lose tonight, so, good luck with life, fag.” And with that, Ranka turned back to the door.
Alto’s brain had ceased to function. He was no longer a pretty pretty princess; her endless abuse had transformed him into a wild animal. A bear, perhaps. An angry, somehow sexual bear. Or a wildcat. Rar!
As he launched himself from his chair, his brush flew behind him and tears streamed, sparkling, all around his face. Vague speed lines began to form, but faded again, as if realizing that he was only traveling 4 or 5 feet. Before he knew it, his hand was locked firmly around Ranka’s wrist, which suddenly seemed so tiny and fragile. She looked back over her shoulder at him with a mix of shock and no small amount of fear.
“I’m not… gay!” he growled through clenched teeth at her.
Her fear melted into her usual egomaniacal smirk.
“Then prove it, trap.”
Alto yanked Ranka toward his body by the wrist, and the surprise returned to her face. He wrapped his other hand around her bare midsection and pressed her against him tightly. She was stiff at first, but softened, and finally her free arm threw itself around his neck. The positioning of arms and legs became horribly confusing for a minute, but as his resolve strengthened, so did other parts of his anatomy that he was far more sure about.
“I fucking will.”
HAHAHA that is the sound of me laughing at myself because I am a fucking idiot. There is an increasing trend in episodic blogging against actual episodic blogging, i.e., summaries, which I think is great, and I will take credit for it — but rather than rest on my laurels as an innovator, I must continue to innovate by blogging NEXT WEEK’S EPISODES before they happen. And, just to be safe and make sure no one else is doing what I am, I will do it as horrible fanfic!
I hope anyone reading that paragraph is keen on what jokes are. But seriously, we got some great development on the classic Macross Triangle principle this week, and the preview shows Ranka in a Minmay-esque dress while singing, with the translation “this song of antiquity will resonate throught the galaxy.” So far Macross F has shown the greatest parallels to the original of any other Macross series, so to me that means that I must pray to not be subjected to “My Boyfriend is a Pirate PILOT” shit I keep doing that for the entirety of the episode. I’m guessing Yoko Kanno is going to go in a different, some would argue better, direction. And yes, Ranka in a bikini. You sick fucks.