Annabel Poupette

Name,
Annabel Poupette & Monsieur Vincent Cambouis

Age,
11 & 39

Gender,
Female & Male

Trainer Type,
Marionnette & Marionnettiste

Hometown,
Paris, France, Europe.

Appearance,
For one moment, a wondering gaze settles on a delicate creature - her delicate features; and his world briefly implodes, vivid and yet translucent, gratuitous scenery slipping away to reveal the sharp image, frozen in time, of a young girl - leg extended, caught in motion as she pushes herself from the ground, forcing the rickety swing into action. Her hair is blonde and falls in loose curls - natural colour and natural shape - long and soft in the sunlight, the buoyant ends gathering against the curve of her lower back. Long, slim, slim limbs are stretched and tensed around the swing, willing the contraption into action. Her skin, while brushed with a light layer of caramel sun, he can tell, is porcelain in the winter. Little hands and little feet - little fingers and little toes ! She possesses all the traits common to girls of her age, and, he delights, lacks those much less endearing aspects confined to those children a few years older - her skin is not yet rough and dry, or burdened with oily spots and blemishes, and her eyes are bright with what can only be recorded as an utter absence of anxiety; perfection. A petite nose, smooth lightly flushed cheeks, wide grey eyes - no, blue ? marble - a tiny pink pout framing two sets of uniform little teeth, as white as the sun and the cloth of her socks. She couldn't have been more than nine, but his heart palpitated and his breath caught, and he knew he was lost.

Stark against the vibrant greenery of the park, a man sits, stiff and awkward, on a bench. Incredibly thin, and with an expensive black suit cutting sophisticated angles, his legs are crossed, and arms occupied - Les Fleurs du mal clutched in one long-fingered hand, a dark cigarette billowing fumes twisted decadently in the other. Today, his skin is pale, despite the sun, and hair, as ever, dark, curving in little kinks and curls around his head. Sinister eyes and a gentle smile; his presence is both comforting and unnerving - aware of this juxtapose, he conducts himself accordingly. A large, hooked nose defines his features, a source of reverence and ridicule. He takes a long drag from his cigarette, and blinks for the first time since catching sight of that most divine Lolita. His eyes flicker down to the horizon - freshly polished shoes, handmade with a enviable point at the toe, and, with a dandy flourish, a small cuban heel, click click - and back up to the girl. He reaches into his pocket, and advances. The girl, bless her, all open smiles and raw joy, stops her swinging and teeters over at his beckon. Careful, slowly - and then - « Bonjour, petite poupée ! ».

Three years on, she impatiently rummages through her bag - grey suede, as insisted, and impossibly labryinthe in nature. Her hair is slightly shorter, but essentially the same, her thin limbs longer, and - having lost her tan - she stands less than half an inch shorter than 4"9. Eleven years old and dressed with a fine grey ribbon in her hair - it's her thing, this month - she finally straightens herself up, turning to the man beside her with a triumphant smile. He has aged even less; whilst his hair is less controlled and the fine wrinkles under his eyes are beginning to become slightly more pronounced, his fingers remain just as obscure and spindly, his teeth no more or less stained with rich tobacco and caffeine than they had been then. His young companion, twirling in an attempt to sustain his attention, squeals something unintelligible - she was incredibly excited, that much he could deduce. Today, she wore little denim shorts, brogues (grey, always), and a loose floaty tshirt - tomorrow, it may be an adorable dress and fancy pumps, picked especially by her Papa; some days, she chose, others, he got his way. After applying a fresh layer of lipgloss - he didn't approve of make-up; of course, this simply made her love it more - she catches his arm and concentration, thrusts a leaflet into the older man's face and addresses him firmly, if not unkindly, « Vincent, regarde ! We will be going to Johto, papa.. ».

Personality,
Throughout their companionship, Annabel had blossomed from blind and gullible girlchild, to true nymphet, savvy with a thirst for knowledge otherwise uncultivated. All the same, she continues to squeal, giggle, skip, and would swap her heart for a shiny object in an instant - and for a shiny Pokémon, she’d offer the rest. Innocence and a penchant for wide-eyed wonder remain a defining aspect of her being; no matter her upbringing, corruption and perversion could do nothing to strip the girl of her human-born right to marvel at the wonders of the world. When not a victim to her situation, Annie is delighted by each new person, plant, place and Pokémon she catches sight of - responsibility and obligation have not yet engulfed imagination and glee. Nevertheless, there are nights, when he holds her too loose or too close, when that curious sense of longing returns to Annabel; an abyss of rushing, tumbling, intangible anguish saturates her thoughts and flesh, a relentless and inaccessible pocket of the brain screeching for a memory that she can not recall, and for the next stretch of the journey, she is nothing more than a vacant vessel, a genuine poupée, but without the vibrant glow that so enchants her enchanter.

Anniebee loves Pokémon, as every good little girl should. Reclining under the sun exactly, sunglasses settled on her petite heart-shaped face, eyes closed beneath - and an icelolly for Lolly - Annabel relaxes, only the sound of Mr C’s fingers dancing over the piano to keep her rooted in this vile, malformed reality. Painting and chess occupy her during those days when it seems Kyogre seeks to punish the land. Recently, age beginning to propel rapidly towards the much dreaded state of adolescence, her attitude has taken on a much more brash and confrontational flavour, sometimes even spoilt and petulant. Vincent, through great effort and persistence, has managed to construct a solid foundation for a true appreciation of literature and art in this jeune fille, reading to her each day and night some poem, play, or another. When there is a light breeze and Wingull fly overhead, Annabel loves Monsieur Cambouis more than anything in the world; he is her papa, protector, friend, and more - but when the heat is stifling and there has been no outside contact for days, Annabel feels only resentment for the twisted, malicious creature curled at her side. She dreams, but even then only in hesitant whispers, of raising a team of Pokémon and leaving Vincent, frozen as son rêve, son âme, his eternal mannequin disappears into the stars, to clutch in vain at the remnants of his contorted obsession. Until then, she’ll just smile and play along. A happy child. Delicate.

Vincent, ever a cynic, is suspicious of even his own judgment. However, je pense, donc je suis, and to live is to do, and so he does. He does only and exactly that which will bring himself pleasure; coffee, oui, alcohol, oui, training Pokémon, non, swimming, non. Despite the callous and calculating manner in which this awkward artist snatched his amour, it is with a pure and real love, that of a father, that he fixates on her, and in this way, would shed his decedent, nonchalant skin in a flash, moving to sacrifice himself entirely for sa petite jolie, Annie. Having spent the majority of his life observing and forming conclusions about those around him, Mr C now feels that he has, and indeed should have, very little time for people who fall outside of his perception, his world. A notebook & pen, zippo & cigarettes, Annabelle & eternity; he’s a poet at heart, really. The idea of travelling a land in the pursuit of dangerous, violent individuals is something that causes le cœur de Monsieur Cambouis to contract and churn with fear and nausea - but for Annabel, for Annabel. Be determined and persist.

History,
Annabel. Annabelle. Born Annabel Myosotis, little Annie lived a simple, happy life, unaware of her parents’ financial struggles and the intercontinental violence beleaguering the planet. She spent her time singing, picking flowers, and pursuing wild Pokémon amidst her infantile dreams. Mother a French scholar and artist, father an English - occupation, she was never sure; he was a dreamer and made excellent dinners. Bell grew up in Paris, the streets and rooftops her unversed Eden, those hot days and wet nights forever weaved into her skin. Paris, son cœur, son âme, the place where she first exchanged glances with him... She had grown up with several companion Pokémon in her Parisian apartment - the vague memory tickles restlessly against her inefficient hippocampus - but which species, now escapes her.. In fact, she struggles to remember anything specific at all, before that day in the park, le jardin du péché..

At age eight, young Annabel Myosotis disappeared. Unsupervised for a mere ten minutes; gone. Oh, the poor parents - they searched and wailed and scorched the earth for hours, days, weeks, months, years yet to come - and never again did they set eyes on their little Annabel. On that day, bright and pleasant, she found herself accosted - no, gentler than that, approached, addressed, enticed - by a man much older than she. Tall and aberrant, a grotesque shade of allure in his manner, she hadn’t even noticed his lingering gaze. She hadn’t noticed his quiet, ominous gestures, or the tension behind his eyes. She hadn’t noticed his hand slipping into the inside pocket of his jacket, and her naïve smile remained even as she herself slipped out of consciousness. Worst and best of all, upon waking, she hadn’t noticed the sudden, uninvited, complete and utter desecration, desolation and devastation of her young life.

Monsieur Vincent Cambouis. VC. Vieille Canaille. He also hails from Paris, living not far from the park where this story began. Paint, smoke, poetry, prose, compose, perform, read, pokémon, smoke, drink, smoke, love. He carried out his life in an perpetual state of ennui, endlessly creating and experiencing, without ever reaching a conclusion; devoid of such simple, finite satisfaction - and granted the opportunity, Mr C decided to take fate into his own sordid hands, settling finally on one single purpose; Pygmalion. Having foregone the route of Pokémon enthusiast in favour of art, Vincent, a crease in his brow and quirk in his lips, resolved to capture something pure and free, and, very carefully, sculpt it, mould and condition his petite poupée until, at last, he could retreat and declare; mon œuvre est parfait, my work, my art, is perfect.

Calmly, he left the park. No one questioned the little girl in his arms.

Two days later, Annabel awoke - Annabel Poupette. Vincent decorated his delicate doll in the finest clothes he could buy, appropriating her with the finest pseudonym and finest sobriquet his crooked sanity could conjure; Annabel Poupette, his dolly, his Lolly. Young and confused, the girl was wracked with an all-consuming sense of loss and horror at first; but for and at what, she could not tell - although she felt terror and sorrow, she had no awareness of the reason ! Her parents, no more than mere shadows on her memory. Identity, c'était quoi ? Less than a decade into her existence, Annabel clung to the only presence near - and so, Mr Cambouis became her papa.

The pair bonded and travelled as father and child, artist and muse, Pygmalion and Galatea. They laughed and shared an obscure respect for each other; she was his pride, and his pride in turn meant everything to her. Annabel entertained his peculiar fantasy; Vincent indulged her insatiable sense of adventure. Throughout her tenth year, Annie began to become restless and bored of Mr C. They knew how to manipulate each other, and what were once joyful, enriching journeys across foreign lands soon became the tiresome and bitter exchange of favours for gifts, and insults for sneers. Begrudgingly, Vincent acknowledged that he had kept his Lolita isolated for far too long. When he noticed, one hot night in August, fragile Annabel crying herself to sleep, his heart exploded, and collapsed. The next day, he finally conceded to her incessant request; at eleven, she could, and would, like the other children, travel to one of the world’s main Pokécentric regions and begin her own odyssey. Relieved at the chance of some independence, Annabel’s disposition improved, and as such did their relationship. Love restored, Lord Henry and his beautiful Dorian boarded a ferry from mainland Europe to the illustrious and fabled Johto.

Goals,
Annabel Poupette wishes to truly experience freedom through the prism of a grand quest, a Pokémon journey. She hopes to understand where her eight years of lost memories disappeared to. Sometimes, she wants to marry Mr C. Other times, she wants to kill him. As for Monsieur Cambouis, Vincent thinks only from one day to the next - don’t lose her.

Other Info,
Every so often, VC is jealous of Annie - for many reasons - but quietly, secretly, he too longs for Pokémon companions. Whilst he cannot raise Annabel’s Pokémon for her, being the forceful papa that he is, is likely to ensure that he makes his mark on their existence.
He likes birds especially, they remind him of himself. So does Annabel (for the same reason).
Vincent sketches Annabel and each Pokémon she meets, every day - she doesn’t know.
Annie aime les sucettes. Annie loves lollipops.

The parents of Annabel Myosotis never gave up their search.

How did you find us?,
An advertisement on a dead forum (I cannot remember who the member was, I will check and post in the relevant thread !).

also, I am not a paedophile, fear not.