Pressure. Cold. Light so bright it felt like judgment. A moustache declared "healthy boy!" in the paid-by-the-adjective register, linen hissed, metal clinked, and I introduced myself to the world with the sound of a kettle being mugged.
Then—her.
Red hair that could start a fight with a camera, cheekbones with a fan club, and that dangerous Hollywood smile—the one that says I know exactly where the lens is and it knows exactly where I am. I didn't have to hunt through memory. The name just clicked into place like a loaded headline:
Valeria "Val Ann" Andrade.
Documentary rabbit holes from my previous life came rushing back—Monroe feuds, studio contracts, a microphone kissed by light. In those stories she was myth with perfect lighting. In this room she was flushed, victorious, and reaching for me like she'd just arm-wrestled God and won on a technicality.
"Mi hijo," she whispered, and gravity took on a Latin accent. I tucked in like a very expensive secret.
Motion at her shoulder: a tall Japanese man in a suit so correct it could pass immigration on its own. Calm eyes, precise hands. He leaned in and spoke in Japanese—soft, exact, the kind of voice that asks rooms to behave and they do. I swung my newborn spotlight toward him—
—and a rectangle unfolded behind my eyes.
> SYSTEM ONLINE
Welcome, Alexander Hiroshi Takeda Andrade.
Fame System v1.0 initializing…
Ah. My brain ships with pop-ups. Of course it does.
A thin progress bar strolled across my mind like it had nowhere better to be.
> Core Function: measure and grow your public value.
Fame Points (FP): generated when people spend money, time, or attention because of you or your ventures; also when your choices change the course of others' lives.
Use: purchase templates, skills, enhancements; unlock missions and protections.
Current FP: 0.00
"Where's the damn manual?" I thought, because even covered in vernix I am a man of process.
> Tutorial available. Open now? [Y/N]
Y.
The text arrived like a discreet waiter—quick, competent, and amused I was reading this while purple and furious.
— Grow audience → convert attention → monetize projects.
— Altering expected outcomes can mint larger FP.
— Missions exist. Optional. Efficiency rewarded.
— Avoid combustion. (Humor.)
"Good to have a manual," I told the void, and the void pretended not to be pleased.
A small gift icon blinked like it had been practicing for weeks.
> Novice Gift Pack: CLAIMED
Skill: Recruitment Eye (Lv.1) added.
Instruction: Focus to use. See potential or a green highlight on safe targets.
Finally, something useful and blessedly brief.
I concentrated.
The world didn't go neon; it went obedient. Curtains, chrome, uniforms—everything softened to tasteful greys. Two figures refused to fade: my mother—vivid as rumor—and the suited man—sharp as protocol. When I relaxed, color came back like nothing had happened. Manual focus. Consent-based sorcery. We love to see it.
I looked properly at the man again—tie knot like a small oath, posture like a treaty that had passed inspection. No flicker from the trivia vault. If he was famous, it was in a footnote. He murmured to me in Japanese—gratitude, promise, breathe—and smelled faintly of starch, paper, and the sort of soap that thinks it's better than you.
"Healthy boy," the moustache repeated, clearly charging by the reassurance. The midwife—Hargrave on her pin—tucked me into a fortress of linen with the competence of a woman who has delivered half the city and will not be impressed by the other half.
No beeping monitors, no plastic colonies, lamps that threw honest shadows. Outside: the unmistakable clop-clop of someone parking a horse in a century that should have known better. The nurse used "frightfully" like a verb. Postwar Britain, then. Lovely. I arrived just in time to miss antibiotics being optional.
A man from the Household slid in wearing a suit pressed by regret. "Warm congratulations," he said with institutional sincerity. "We can discourage the birds if you wish."
Birds meant photographers. The hedges outside were apparently throwing a press conference.
I focused past the door—cap, camera, patience. The Eye didn't flare; it simply refused to elevate them. Useful, not noisy. I had met people who could learn from that.
> FP: 0.00 → 0.27
Sources: corridor rumor, florist pre-order, a nurse's cousin who "knows a fellow at the Mirror."
And we're monetizing breathing. Excellent.
Tea appeared (Britain), was poured with liturgical gravity (Hargrave), and judged insufficiently sweet (my mother, making a face that could topple governments). The suited man hovered like a polite bodyguard made of etiquette.
I allowed myself a study of my mother because some indulgences are holy: the red that would get its own fan mail, the mouth that could win a courtroom, the eyes that told you you'd been caught and enjoyed it. The Eye didn't need to color her; she colored the room herself. Still, when I focused, everything else stepped two paces back like extras giving the star a clean line.
I tried the trick on a couple of objects out of sheer curiosity: the silver ring on her finger (refused to dull entirely when I concentrated; noted), the lamp (warm and honest), the glass (wavy—old), the door (waiting for later), the city (wet and unimpressed). When I released the focus, the world returned to its regularly scheduled programming: linen, whispers, victory.
Names arrived with the tidying: "Counsellor," someone called the suited man in English, then in Japanese—Takeda-san. A hook to hang a hat on. Counselor Takeda. If there were a league table for men who could out-polite a crisis, he'd be Champions League every year.
He leaned down and tried my name in English, careful like he was placing teacups on good china. "Alexander Hiroshi… Takeda Andrade."
My mother smiled. "Alex," she corrected, queenly and kind. There it was—the stadium chant version, the kind you can print on scarves and legal papers.
The Household emissary reappeared, smile ironed to regulation, to propose a single photograph at three. "The… hedges are restless," he confessed.
"They should try labor," my mother said sweetly. "Let them wait."
We compromised: one frame, our choice. The emissary bowed in a way that said this was always your choice and thank you for choosing correctly.
When the hour came, the photographer slid in like a cat who knew the windowsill was his by ancient right. Thirty seconds. Staircase. Soft light. My mother center—star; Counselor Takeda left—guard; me center-center—plot device with hair. I executed my brief: baby, but with opinions.
> FP: 0.27 → 1.18
Picture rights whispered; two papers picked the same nickname without speaking; a children's charity rang to "send love" (and a pamphlet).
"Good," my mother said afterward, inspecting the contact sheet like a general choosing ground. "We pick; they spin."
The emissary vanished to choreograph headlines. Hargrave returned to recalibrate the universe with more tea. Counselor Takeda adjusted my blanket with the precision of a man who had signed documents that ended arguments the size of countries.
I tried the Eye on him again, not because I expected a revelation but because habits start small. Focus. The room softened. He stayed crisp. Still no name from the archive, no echo of a documentary voiceover. Just steadiness. The Eye didn't bless him with hype; it simply refused to misplace him.
Fine. Names later. Reliability now.
The radio arrived like a domesticated pet and began reading the news in the soothing tone of a country that prefers under-reaction. Trade talks. Rain with ambitions. A timetable performing heroically. I filed it as atmosphere: good wallpaper, no plot.
"Press at three, then nothing until breakfast tomorrow," my mother decreed. "I will not be charming on an empty stomach."
"After breakfast," said Counselor Takeda, "the world may apply in writing."
They looked at each other like they'd just ratified a small, perfect treaty.
The Eye, when I raised it again, behaved with that same elegant restraint: focus to use; see potential or green on safe targets. No graphics, no devotional music. When I let it go, it went. The best help is the kind that doesn't demand applause.
Sleep landed like weather. New bodies are tyrants; mine declared a curfew. I surrendered with the aristocratic confidence of a person who will be carried everywhere for months.
---
London morning apologized through the window again. Lipstick reappeared on my mother because it obeys her. The Counselor read a slim stack of paper with the air of a man who once extracted a compromise from a committee by sighing at the right volume. Hargrave checked me like a chef checks a sauce and declared me "perfect, for now."
"First photo went well," the Household reported, materializing to repeat the agreed-upon history. "We have… cooperation." Which is what you call obedience when you're being polite.
"Excellent," my mother said, and the word felt like a verdict handed down by a glamorous magistrate.
I tested the Eye on the corridor gap again. Cap. Camera. Patience. Still not our problem—yet.
> FP: 1.18 → 2.03
syndication; florist delivered enough lilies to bury a scandal; columnists sharpened adjectives.
I inaugurated my first grin. It mostly consisted of gums and unreasonable self-belief. The room applauded like I'd invented smiling. Fame is so efficient when expectations are subterranean.
I studied the Counselor in that ruthless way only babies and auditors can. Still nothing from the vault. Which, if I'm honest, I liked; fame is fun, but competence is addictive. He looked like a man who would keep a promise even if no one watched, especially if no one watched. You can't teach that; you can only notice it and refuse to waste it.
The Household proposed another gentle "moment" on the stair and was denied with charm. We had given the birds their seed. They could build their own nest.
By afternoon the room had learned our rhythm: tea, paper, baby, repeat. I rehearsed being looked at without flinching. My mother rehearsed being impossible to misquote. The Counselor rehearsed moving things without being seen to move them.
I tried the Eye on a few innocents for practice: the trolley (only biscuits, no metaphors), the bouquet (destined for a pull-quote), the bedside frame (that cropped figure still teasing the edge—rude), the lamp (reliable), the door (behaved). Each time I let focus rise, the world obliged; each time I let it go, it minded its own business. A tool that knew how to shut up. Precious.
And then the tiny piece of biography I'd been hunting finally fell into my ear without ceremony. A junior nurse at the door, in Japanese, soft as a memo: "…Counsellor Takeda."
Takeda. The hook got a name. Hiroshi would come later in a letterhead or a whispered introduction. For now, Counselor Takeda was enough to shake hands with.
I gave him another long look and got exactly what I expected: not fireworks, not fanfare—just the Eye refusing to misfile him.
"Tomorrow," my mother announced as sunset started tinting the window, "we entertain only those who bring pastries."
"Or treaties," said Takeda.
"Pastries are treaties," she said, and I am prepared to run a nation on that platform.
I focused one last time. The room dimmed to gentle; the two of them stayed, as ever, the note the chord resolves to. The moment itself—a triangle of tired, thrilled, terrified—held steady, patient, green.
I let go. They did not.
I slept like a citizen in a well-run country.
Outside, the birds argued with their editors. Inside, numbers climbed like ivy—quietly, persistently, intent on covering the facade.
And underneath it all, the simplest rule hummed in my new bones: look hard, focus when it matters, and don't waste the light.
The hedges had developed a rhythm: rustle, click, whisper, swear, repeat. Every so often a reporter tried to invent subtlety and failed loudly. Hargrave treated the noise like distant weather. My mother treated it like applause she hadn't ordered. Counselor Takeda treated it like a chess timer: something that exists, therefore you account for it.
A junior nurse crept in with a conspiratorial grin. "Brought contraband," she whispered, unveiling a plate of biscuits as if we were running a speakeasy for carbohydrates.
I focused: the biscuits stubbornly refused a halo. Good. Even my magic agreed: some things are just biscuits.
The System, of course, had notes:
> FP: 2.03 → 2.19
impact source: staff gossip ("he smiled, the dear")
Observation: smiling is cost-effective.
I tested that hypothesis by practicing a new expression: the half-smirk of a man who absolutely did not just fill his diaper. The room applauded. The Mirror will eat this, I thought, and the Fame meter twitched like a cat seeing a laser pointer.
A knock. Household again, wearing a fresh apology. "The press are wondering," he said, "if the… nickname is acceptable."
My mother blinked once in a way that should be copyrighted. "Which one?"
"'The Little Prince of Three Worlds.'"
She considered. "It's ridiculous," she said, "and I adore it."
The System coughed, which is impressive for an interface.
> FP: 2.19 → 2.73
alias adoption increases cohesion.
Note: alliteration continues to outperform common sense.
Counselor Takeda signed something with the quick economy of a man who can feel a bureaucracy getting ideas. "One photo," he said to Household, "one nickname, one nurse guarding the door with a stare."
Hargrave cracked her knuckles. Household retreated respectfully. I mentally promoted her to Field Marshal.
I tried the Eye on the stairwell when the door swung—tan banister, floral carpet, a photographer practicing humility. Neutral. But when I slid my attention back to the triad of us, it did the same obedient magic: the world softened; my mother and the Counselor stayed bright; I stayed smug.
Lunch arrived, which in this era meant food shaped like agreements: triangles of white bread with ambitions, soups that had read about spices in a book. My mother ate like she had fought to earn it (she had). The Counselor ate like he had scheduled it (he had). I ate like a tyrant commanding a dairy empire.
The System filed expense reports:
> FP: 2.73 → 3.04
sources: canteen rumor ("the baby winked at me"), florist upsell ("bigger lilies"), Household memo ("tone: warm, restrained, mercilessly charming").
The radio delivered a traffic update with the reputational gravity of a papal bull. Somewhere, a horse objected to trucks existing. Somewhere else, a typewriter learned to sprint.
I attempted a roll-over and achieved a dramatic wiggle. The room cheered. I logged it as core workout. The System, being a monster, added:
> STAT LOG (passive):
STR: 0.2 → 0.21 (resistance training: blanket)
DEX: 0.1 (aspirational)
CHA: "weaponized"
Weaponized. Finally, a number I respect.
"Tomorrow," Household said from the doorway, "Her… that is, a certain lady… may send flowers." He tried not to look at my mother while saying certain. Admirable technique.
"Tell a certain lady not to pick a fight with a florist," my mother said brightly. "They will bury her in peonies."
"Quite," Household said, proving he did, in fact, know fear.
Afternoon softened into that gentle grey Britain does when it's plotting weather. Hargrave reorganized reality by moving a pillow half an inch. The Counselor adjusted my blanket with geopolitical precision. I, sensing an audience, chose violence: hiccups.
My hiccups are powerful. The first arrived like punctuation. The second like a scandal. By the third, the camera outside hiccuped in solidarity.
> FP: 3.04 → 3.36
source: corridor anecdote ("the hiccup was darling").
Tip: consider licensing Darling Hiccup™ (merch feasibility: medium).
"Over my dead brand," my mother murmured, and the System matured an entirely new respect for her.
Counselor Takeda tried patting, then rhythm, then a technique that looked suspiciously like reading me a treaty. My hiccups surrendered. He did not crow. Men who negotiate for a living only celebrate on paper.
"Thank you," she told him, then me, then the room, which took the compliment gallantly.
Another visitor: a chaplain with kind eyes and the aura of a kettle that always knows when to boil. He had the good sense to hover in the doorway like a suggestion. I focused, curious; the Eye didn't light him, but it refused to erase him. He nodded a blessing at the geography of us and withdrew. A professional. I liked him.
The day folded into itself in dignified origami. Somewhere between the second tea and the third, a junior nurse said "Counsellor Hiroshi Takeda" without knowing she'd delivered a plot point. I tucked the name away like a stolen spoon. Not a headline name. Not yet. But a handle for later.
My mother dozed and woke with the loose grace of someone who has wrestled a miracle and is now letting it purr. Hiroshi—now we had the syllables—stood a long time just watching us, the way men do when they have learned not to fidget in front of gods. When he finally sat, he did it like conceding ground to a worthy adversary: gravity.
"First thing tomorrow," my mother said, not opening her eyes, "no visitors before coffee."
"Second thing," Hiroshi said softly, "no meetings before joy."
She smiled without looking. "We shall be insufferable."
"We shall be efficient," he corrected, which is diplomat for insufferable on purpose.
The System flicked a tiny ribbon onto my inner UI:
> TITLE UNLOCKED: The Little Prince (working)
Effect: +2% friendliness on first meeting (UK press only).
Cosmetic: crowns appear in tabloids; cannot be removed; condolences.
I tried to uninstall it with a scowl. The scowl was adorable. The title stayed.
Evening moved in. The photographer made his exit with the humility of a man who knows he'll sell out the morning edition. Hargrave dismissed everyone by existing. Household bowed to the air and departed to choreograph adjectives. The hedges rustled, satisfied like birds that robbed a bakery.
I practiced one more focus. The room obeyed. The two of them—my star and my suit—held bright and ordinary at once. The green felt like a lamp left on in a window so you can find your way home.
I let it go and tried on a thought as big as the window: I do not know this man yet. I know this woman like the world did, but she isn't the world's version when she looks at me. The Eye is a flashlight; the System keeps score; the rest is on me.
The System, incapable of affection and trying anyway, dimmed the panes.
> Day 1 Summary:
FP: 3.9 (proj. overnight: 4.7–5.5)
Notable: first image locked; nickname seeded; biscuit quality: acceptable.
Reminder: focus to use the Eye; green = safe.
"Copy," I thought, then attempted a yawn so cinematic it should have come with orchestration. Success. Applause. A small FP tremor. God bless the hedges.
As sleep came, London reheated its rain, the hospital folded its noise into polite stacks, and my mother's heartbeat set metronome to keep. Hiroshi adjusted the curtain exactly once, like a man convinced you can negotiate with shadows.
I slept like a rich scandal.
And outside, without asking permission, the numbers climbed the wall like ivy looking for a better view.