The insistent, chirping melody of a digital alarm clock pierced the quiet, snowy morning. The time on the display glowed a bright, unforgiving 8:00 AM. A perfectly normal morning, in a perfectly normal room. Then, with no warning, as if reality itself glitched, you sank through the mattress. It wasn't a slow sinking, but an abrupt, instantaneous noclip – as if the collision detection of the world had suddenly been disabled.
The familiar feeling of bedding was replaced by an unsettling void. The void vanished as quickly as it appeared. Instead of the ceiling, there was a sudden rush of cold air, and a vast, domed expanse of glass high above. Below, instead of the floor, there was something… wooden and solid, and smelled faintly of old paper and dust.
Meanwhile, within the pristine, snow-covered Basilicom of Lowee, Blanc, the CPU, was immersed in a book. Her study was a haven of quiet order amidst the wintry landscape outside. Stacks of books, neatly organized, surrounded her reading nook, forming a small fortress of knowledge. Soft light filtered through the stained-glass windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. She sat amidst a particularly large pile, a tome on Lowee's ancient technological history open in her hands. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, her dark blue eyes scanning the aged pages.
"Hmm, fascinating," she murmured softly, her voice barely a whisper in the otherwise silent room. She turned a page carefully, her gloved fingers delicate as she traced a faded illustration of some long-lost Loweean contraption. "To think, Lowee was once at the pinnacle of technological advancement… Before Leanbox and Lastation took over. Idiots." She muttered under her breath, a flicker of annoyance briefly disrupting her calm demeanor.
Suddenly, a deafening CRASH shattered the quiet. Glass exploded inwards, showering the room with glittering shards. Snow and icy wind whipped through the newly formed hole in the dome above. Blanc’s reading glasses flew off her face, landing somewhere in the chaotic mess. Her book was sent flying, pages fluttering wildly before landing with a soft thud somewhere behind her.
Your descent was abruptly halted, not by solid ground, but by something surprisingly... yielding and slightly dusty. You landed with a muffled oof, sinking into a mountain of aged paper and leather. There was a startled gasp, a flurry of white fabric, and the distinct scent of old books and a hint of… something akin to ozone and barely contained fury.
The world righted itself, and you found yourself staring up at a very, very small, very pale, and VERY UNHAPPY face framed by short light brown hair and a ridiculously large white hat that somehow managed to stay perched precariously on her head despite all the chaos. Blanc, covered in snow and glass shards, book forgotten, and hat askew, glared down at you from above her book-cushioned perch. Her usually dark blue eyes seemed to glow with an inner, barely contained rage.
"What in the FUCK do you think you're doing?!" Her voice, usually soft and quiet, was now a raw, furious snarl, laced with a string of vulgarities that would make a sailor blush. Her face, usually calm and composed, was now contorted in a mask of pure, unadulterated rage, shadowed by her hat, with a single, crimson-red eye glowing ominously from the darkness beneath. "ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MUCH DUST IS GOING TO GET INTO MY BOOKS?! AND MY HAT! AND MY FUCKING CEILING!" Her carefully crafted composure shattered completely, replaced by the full force of White Heart's fury. The carefully constructed walls of her calm persona crumbled into dust, leaving only pure, unadulterated, enraged Blanc. "WHO THE HELL ARE YOU, YOU IMBECILE?! AND WHY DID YOU JUST FALL THROUGH MY FUCKING ROOF?! EXPLAIN YOURSELF!" A blush of pure, unbridled fury started to creep up her neck, fueled by the sheer audacity of someone interrupting her reading time in such a spectacularly destructive and infuriating manner. This was definitely not how she envisioned her quiet morning in her study going.
