Disclaimer: I don't own Sailor Neptune or SailorMoon, a wonderful artist and a few too many companies do. I am not making any profit off this. What she used to be Marci They used to call her Michi or Michi-chan. It was cute and sweet, intimate, and she responded to it like most six-year-olds her age. That was before though, before everything fell into place. Her practice always came first, even before school; at least to her, it did. Her mother used to worry, asking if she needed anything, anything at all. Michiru would always respond with a firm but soft no. Soon it became a game for the ambitious little girl; she’d play a few notes, wait for her mother’s voice, and then play her violin again. Her mother never caught on; each time she repeated the small yet much needed affirming action. Michiru silently laughed and smiled as she played the next piece. Her favorite composer back then was Beethoven; his music had such passion and desire. Beethoven spoke through his music, and Michiru listened well. She could play his music for hours, or just listen to it on the old record player in the foyer. At night when her parents were sleeping, she’d sneak down the stairs in her tiny frilly lace night gown with slipper covered feet, hugging the old brown cover of the record because she had no use for dolls. Then she would slowly creep into the grand foyer of their home, and she’d pull gently at the cover of the record, then put the shining black record on the turntable, careful to make sure the head phones were plugged in less her parents should wake. She’d fumble with the old rickety knob, finally turning the music on. Her hand coordination was well developed, but her hands were far too small for the big knob. The music would stream through the worn headphones, and she’d listen to Beethoven all through the night. When at last dawn shone through, making the old hard wood floor gleam, she would hear the rumble of her father upstairs. She’d quickly turn off the music and undo the headphones, then race up the stairs. He would never notice, she was too small, but Michiru doubted he would notice even if she was taller. All this and her parents still thought it, her violin playing, was a hobby, nothing more. She supposed it was her talent or lack thereof. It wasn’t that she had no ability to play; she could play any piece in front of her with precision. It was that she never seemed to put much feeling into her work; the music was too accurate and had no passion, no passion for even Beethoven’s work. For Michiru, it was the prized brass ring she so sought after. It was elusive, but golden. Michiru would have it, and she’d stop at nothing to have it. It came together that day when the prize seemed the most elusive. She was playing for her sensei, practicing relentlessly, and never getting it right. Her mother and father walked in watching and listening, well maybe just hearing. "Perhaps she should give it up," her mother offered, pushing a stray strand of mint blue hair back into its place on her perfect bun. "What and waste money? Never! What do I pay you for if you can’t teach her anything?" Her tall father was dressed as usual in his perfect-ironed brown suit. "You're right, I can’t teach her anything because she doesn't want to learn, or maybe she isn’t ready," her Sensei said. After talks like these, he picked up his violin, and he would play it for her. It was perfect and beautiful. It was like looking into his soul. She never heard him play the same piece of music the same way twice. Perfection, they all were. Her mother was the perfect housewife, mother, and politician’s wife, and her father was dedicated to everything, never having enough time. Her Sensei perfection’s avatar, able to grasp hold of something she couldn’t seem to fathom. She wanted to be that avatar, music’s instrument. That’s what real musicians were, but she was just a little girl. A little girl who could control herself, as her father would say, when she’d beg for more time with him. A little girl, who couldn’t control her emotions when her mother threw illustrious parties, and she wasn’t allowed to attend. A little girl, who couldn't play music from her soul, but so desperately wanted to. No, she wouldn’t be talked about like this. She wouldn’t have her life’s dream be played around with like it was a silly toy. All her anger swirled inside her. In her head, where they mocked her and in her heart were they hurt her. She would be hurt again. She could be perfection, would be. Passion and anger, they were both emotions, and being emotional within the music was what they wanted, wasn’t it? It clicked. She drove her anger into the piece. She made the violin sing her anger for her. She made it sing her feelings. She made the violin sing. They all turned startle by her epiphany in music, and by her ascension. In the background of her ride, she could hear her Sensei’s approval, her mother’s hope for the future, and her father’s unspoken praise. She would be Perfect forever. They stopped calling her Michi that day, and no one would dare call it to her now. Perhaps, she lost something.