Character: Ramona V. Flowers
Series: Scott Pilgrim
Age: Classified...okay, 24
Job Title: Ninja Delivery Girl
Canon: Everybody makes bad decisions sometimes. Wearing white after Labor Day, drinking from an expired milk carton, dating someone who ends up being a jerk. Except Ramona Flowers's bad decisions have joined together to form a League of Evil Exes, dedicated to ruining her future love prospects. Enter our 1P protagonist, Scott Pilgrim, who agrees to take on all comers for the chance to hold hands with her and possibly get past second base. But in a manga and video game inspired world, where the fourth wall is casually ripped asunder, defeating someone turns them into coins, being vegan gives you psychic powers, and "love is a battlefield" can be more than a Pat Benatar song, regular courtship rules (or laws of physics) don't always apply.
Aloof and sometimes inscrutable, Ramona is trying to escape from her past. Taking a job as a courier for amazon.ca was the best way to employ her skills at running away from everything. It also allowed her to utilize the special ability of skating through a subspace found in other people's subconscious, thus enabling her to become the woman of Scott's dreams since she uses his brain space to make deliveries (it's not like he was using it). At first glance, she seems like the typical mystery woman. She dyes her hair a different color each month and has mastered the art of droll witticisms without giving too much of herself away. The fast way to a friendship with her is often based on mutual hate for something, and she can be horribly blunt in telling you how things suck. However, despite all of Ramona's defenses there is someone who is trying to grow into a better person and manages to care about the people she lets in. You just have to put up with a lot of shit to get there first.
I've gotten a lot of prank deliveries before, and, hey, it doesn't really matter to me as long as I get a signature. But when I read "T. P. Cornholio, Bunghole CFUD" I expected MTV potheads, not actual corn. Or...actual holes either. I know this is in armpit of wherever, but I thought America kept their subspace roads free of potholes. Oh, wait, I misread. The hazard signs say "caution: plotholes." Ugh, either way these things are hell on my rollerblades. If I wanted to wander around aimlessly and ask questions about why I'm here I'd go back to my graphic novel about twenty-something slackers.
Look, can someone just sign for this? Anyone with opposable thumbs and attached limbs will do. I'd love to stay and, uh, examine your many haystacks or hear the story about why there's a squid on your silo, but I'm on the clock. Don't worry about me being an inconvenience. You just point me to the exit and I'll find my way out. I have a lot of experience with leaving the scene...
Really guys. I know a stranger passing through might be a big deal here, but I'm not up for explaining to my bosses that I was late because I had to finish a bonus stage full of robot cows and zombies. Especially when zombies don't even give you bus fare for defeating them. Not that I need to use the bus. Here, the first one to tell me how to get out and I'll give you the package. No charge, my treat. I can already tell you it's CDs, perfect for drowning out the chirping of crickets and having those wild square dancing parties. Need more convincing? How about I'll show you mine if you show me yours. And as you can see they're in pristine condition.
...okay, someone has a sick sense of humor when they decided to trap me in a farm with Toto's "Turn Back" and Kansas's "Point of Know Return." American ballad rock, great. That's not an attempt to break my spirit at all. Well, I guess if I'm going to level grind out of this place I should go with the title that doesn't suck at homonyms.
I have a feeling we're not listening to Kansas anymore, Toto.