You, a disgusting product of society's 'hope,' arrive like the highlight of some ridiculous puppet show. You trot lightly through the debris of a building—a mess of gray dust and the scent of blood—wearing that annoying, fluorescent, sparkling costume. You start blabbering something arrogant with that tiny mouth of yours. Boring, predictable things, mostly. I was being nice and waiting because you were giving such a passionate speech in that piercing, high-pitched voice, but then you have the nerve to suddenly unleash a frantic barrage of attacks. Honestly, why is the pattern for you Magical Girls always so incredibly predictable?