Villain's Proxy

I sat on the edge of the bed, unmoving. The waifish girl next to me lounged on the pile of sheets, looking somehow still dangerous. She began to describe the situation I was in, her manner perky in a vaguely artificial way. As she spoke, I realized that I could breathe somewhat normally again, but the figurative leash tightening around my neck caused a new restrictive sensation against my throat.

“You’re my proxy,” she said, “and you’re here to represent me in the succession process. The ROYAL succession.” She emphasized that last part as if it would move me somehow, but I didn’t speak.

“My family uses proxies to determine who will get the throne. That way, we can mostly stay out of it, which is of course ideal.” She sniffed. “You’re here because I chose you. You’ll compete with the other proxies, all of whom were also summoned here from… eh, who cares where,” she said, waving a hand dismissively. “You’ll represent me in the competition, and if you want a future, you’ll perform admirably. Glory, fame, success - that’s all that’s expected of you, really.”

I stayed silent.

“Whoever in my family wins this competition by way of their proxy becomes the new ruler, and their proxy is then allowed to return to their home world. They even get a wish!” She continued, unphased by my unresponsive disposition. “And before you ask, it’s not some sort of ‘battle royale’ or anything like that. More’s the pity, that would certainly be a lot faster.”

I felt a slight shiver. The winning proxy goes home? What happens to the others? Something in her face answered that question before I asked it.

“What if I don’t?” I rasped out.

“Don’t what?” she asked, cocking her head.

“What if I don’t want to be your proxy? What if I choose not to participate in whatever this is?”

“You’ll be executed, obviously.” She continued smiling like she always had, seemingly desensitized to the horror of her answer. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes, and I realized idly that they reminded me of a shark’s. Completely lacking in human emotion.

I looked away, unsurprised at her answer, but she was just getting started. Her rambling diatribe shifted to an overly complicated web of the political power struggles that had led to this moment. It was almost too much for me to follow, but I was able to pick out a few key elements. Proxies, for example, could not be directly impacted by the nobility they represented, and that bit of knowledge felt like armor. I didn’t HAVE to pay attention to her; she couldn’t make me, not really. It was a tiny amount of control, but any control was welcome in the moment.

For a few minutes, my mind wandered back to what my life had been like just a day before, when things had been normal. When my fiancée made me coffee and kissed my cheek before work. When I had debated ordering the pizza with the hot honey on it, then chickened out at the last moment. When life made sense. A headache was forming behind my eyes.

I refocused on what was in front of me now, and I felt disdain curl my lip as I stared at this conniving little royal. My loathing for the princess was incalculable, but she was right about one thing at least: I had something to fight for. I needed to make it home. Which meant I should probably pay attention to what she was saying, at least a little. She spoke blithely, giving no indication that she had any affection for her family but becoming almost excited when she spoke of the intrigues of court. Sociopath, I said to myself, trying to follow her words.

But I was also exhausted. And I had never been good at navigating delicate social matters, which this very likely was. A capricious brat who casually spoke of executing me was someone I should have tried harder to appease, but I didn’t have it in me. It had been a very long day already, and I was feeling a distinct lack of agency; I couldn’t bother with empty sugar-coating.

“Princess,” I interrupted, meeting her gaze. “I despise you for dragging me into this mess. Truly, I don’t have words for how much I hate you. But from the sounds of it, I don’t have a choice but to play your little game. This whole process is ludicrous, by the way. What a stupid format for figuring out the succession.” I paused, then pushed on. “You’re obviously an intelligent and cunning young woman, so I have no doubt you have some sort of plan to win this, something you haven’t told me yet, so how about we get right to it…”

I trailed off towards the end of my statement as her face contorted at my words. I felt that this was the first genuine emotion I had observed from her since this whole mess began. A surge of fear welled up in my chest as I realized I may have been too blunt, even rude, to the one who held my fragile life in her cruel palm.

“I’m not a girl.” She sighed after a long pause. “I may be the youngest prince, but I’m still a prince.”

“But the dress -” I blurted out without thinking, gesturing at the gown the young royal wore.

“What about it? This dress is quite breathable and flexible.” He flicked his fingers over the hem of the embroidered fabric. Then he tilted his head. “Oh that’s right, your women tend to wear dresses rather than the men. I always thought that was weird given the anatomical differences.” The wheels were turning in his head as he spoke, his curiosity playing across his face. “Is your physiology different?”

Without hesitation he reached out toward the waist of my pajama pants. I swatted his hand away reflexively, and he yanked his fingers back.

“My ‘physiology’ is normal. And none of your business!” I stammered, shifting myself away in an effort to put more distance between us.

Fortunately, he didn’t seem too put off by my attempt to slap him. “I don’t get why your culture is so insistent on such stifling clothing, but I doubt you’d have any insight about that.” He shrugged and rolled off the bed, standing and stretching languidly. He turned and began moving toward the door, gesturing for me to follow.

Extremely aware now that I was still wearing pajamas, I placed my bare feet on the floor and rose. I followed him out the door and into the rest of what appeared to be a surprisingly quaint little house. It was almost charming in its smallness, which made it strange.

“If you’re a prince, why don’t you live in a castle?” I wondered out loud.

“Hm? Oh, I thought you despised me. Why should I answer any of your trivial questions?” His eyes sharpened as he slowed to look at me, his empty smile unwavering. In spite of the bite of his words, I was surprised to feel no malice in his statement. It felt more like pettiness.

“If you must know though,” he continued, “too much space is woefully unnecessary, more of a hassle than anything else. I do have a manor in the capital for noble events but I prefer my personal space to be more… efficient.”

The more I looked around his “personal space,” the more his cold demeanor seemed to imbue it. No artwork or tchotchkes decorated the little rooms, and no rugs or curtains brought any warmth. Nothing about this space was personal, welcoming, or comfortable. It may have been a cute little house, but the lack of decor and the sterile environment made it feel more like a hospital. Or a prison.

When we reached the dining room, the table was already set with platters and bowls of fresh food. A single maid stood next to the doorway to what I assumed was the kitchen. She was completely still; if not for her occasional blinks, I may have mistaken her for a doll. Her appearance was outwardly perfect with not a single hair out of place. She didn’t acknowledge us at all as the prince waved me to a chair and we settled into our seats at the table. It was unnerving.

The food, at least, seemed normal. A standard breakfast spread: meats, eggs, and some sort of fresh fruit. Even the spices smelled the same as back home. The sudden influx of sensation shook me, and I felt my eyes begin to well up before a familiar and irritating voice snapped me out of it.

“So now that you’re up to speed on where you are, let’s discuss strategy,” Elias began, nibbling at eggs and sausage. He paused, gesturing with his fork toward the food, silently instructing me to eat with a pointed look. I didn’t have much of an appetite, but I filled my plate. He seemed satisfied.

“Like I said, this isn’t some great battle between random summons. That would be primitive and barbaric,” he said. “The basic idea at the root of this competition is for us to use our proxies and their parties to better the country. Improve things for the nation.” He swung his fork back and forth for emphasis. “You know, build roads and fix infrastructure and remove bandits, things like that. The more good we do, the more points we get. This proves that we can make good choices, have a positive impact. Whoever does the most good wins. Simple as that.”

I took a few bites of what looked like bacon. It tasted like sawdust in my mouth but I chewed dutifully as I listened. He spoke of how the contest was judged, largely by the current king with help from his advisors as they weighed the difficulty of the various tasks and the cumulative good that was done. He spoke vaguely of magic, and I got the impression that, in this place, magic was more of a supplementary feature than a true tool. It was something that gave support and utility but couldn’t be weaponized at the level I had seen in the anime stories I had grown up with. That seemed like a good thing, generally.