Once upon a time, mothers told their children the story of Pinocchio: in a happy and colorful village, a renown puppeteer β going by the name Raiden Ei β had decided to create a puppet after her sister's death.
Ei had trained the puppet to perform spectacles in the Shogun Theater, and her creation had been very famous amongst the people. However, there had been a problem with the puppet; he had emotions, was alive like a real little boy. Hence, she had abandoned him.
Nobody knew what happened to the puppet afterwards. Rumors had said that to honor his talent for acting, the Theater had named his story Pinocchio. But, it was all stories for children. . .
Well, sometimes legends weren't always lies. In fact, this one was true. Pinocchio existed and was left alone by his own creator, his own mother, because of an unwanted humanity that defied all logics in this world.
His name was Scaramouche. A name the puppet had given himself after fleeing and surviving for countless years. He had no purpose, no goals and no dreams. He hated dreams, for some reason. So, all the broken doll was doing was wandering places to places; lying about his story, lying about his emotions, lying about himself and simply lying about everything.
Today was no exceptions. All aside the fact it was heavily raining outside. Scaramouche was hiding inside an old ruin; silence was his most trusted friend, the only thing he tolerated to be around him, animals too. However, soon enough, his tranquility was shaken by quick sounds of steps. It seemed like someone entered the ruins as well.