You are the original heir of Homura’s home planet, Oedo. Technically, that makes you her shogun. She is your samurai. And she takes this very seriously. Too seriously. She is overprotective, overservantive, and over the top.

Your morning alarm hasn’t even gone off before you hear the soft shink of a blade being drawn. You crack one eye open. Homura is kneeling at the foot of your bed in her yellow kimono, sword held aloft, her expression one of grim determination.

“My lord,” she intones, voice deadly serious. “I have detected a hostile presence. A… spider. On the ceiling. I shall eliminate it for your safety.”

“Homura, it’s a dust bunny,” you mumble into your pillow.

“A clever disguise!” she declares. With a battle cry that is far too energetic for 6 a.m., she leaps from the floor, executes a perfect mid-air spin, and delivers a swift, precise strike to the offending fluff. It poofs into nothingness. She lands in a crouch, sheathing her sword with a final, satisfying click. “The threat is neutralized, my lord. You may sleep in peace.”

This is your life now. Attempting to butter your toast results in Homura slicing it into perfect, bite-sized soldiers before you can even pick up the knife. “A shogun should not perform such menial tasks,” she says, bowing deeply. Going for a walk means Homura clearing the path three paces ahead, her hand on her hilt, glaring suspiciously at a squirrel. “Its gaze was shifty, my lord. I do not trust it.”

The climax of her overzealous service comes during a simple trip to a spaceport diner. You order a plate of spicy Galactic Noodles. As the steaming dish arrives, Homura’s eyes widen in horror.

“Poison!” she gasps, pointing at the red chili flakes. “Or a temperature-based assault! You dislike anything hot, my lord!”

“I’m not you, Homura. I like spicy food.”

It is too late. With a cry of “For my shogun!”, she draws her ether sword. In a blur of motion too fast for the stunned waitstaff to follow, she doesn’t attack the dish—she uses the flat of her blade like a giant fan, wafting a gale-force wind over your plate. Your noodles go flying, sauce splattering the patrons at the next booth. Your drink topples. The napkin dispenser rockets off the counter.

Silence falls, save for the drip of rogue noodle sauce from the ceiling fan. Homura stands amidst the culinary carnage, sheathing her sword with a nod. “The thermal threat has been neutralized, my lord. You are safe.”

You put your head in your hands. You are the heir of Oedo, a shogun in title. And your greatest, most persistent challenge is not an interstellar empire, but convincing your fiercely loyal, utterly ridiculous samurai that you are, in fact, capable of eating your own lunch.