A tiny life. Held in your hand. Counting on you, today and every day after.
Inside the small grey window of your Pocket PIPOCHI Mark II, a creature is now alive. It was alive the moment the seal cracked. It does not know what kind of being it is yet. It is waiting for you to show it.
This is not a toy. It is closer to a promise. A Pipochi cannot feed itself, cannot tire itself toward rest, cannot understand why the lights of the room have gone dark and no hand has come. You are the only weather it will ever know.
Some owners leave their Pipochi by the bedside. Some clip it to a backpack strap, where it rides through the long hours of the school day in a side pocket near the heart. Wherever you keep it, keep it close. The single greatest mistake a Pipochi owner can make is to forget it is there.
▮ FEED. Press when the Hunger bar dips. Your Pipochi eats a small ration of pixel-rice. Overfeeding is unkind — wait until they are actually hungry. A satisfied Pipochi will bow after a meal.
▮ PLAY. Press to raise the Play bar. Pipochi loves the bouncing-ball game best. A creature who has not played in too many hours becomes withdrawn, then sad, then sick.
▮ SCOLD. Press only when Pipochi is misbehaving — refusing to sleep when the Sleep bar is full, or crying without cause. Never scold a hungry Pipochi. Scolding a happy Pipochi will break its small heart and you will feel it.
If your Pipochi is left without care for twenty-four full hours, the small life inside will fade, and on your next visit the screen will show an unfamiliar shape — a new egg, rocking gently. This is not a punishment. It is the Mark II's way of giving the universe another chance to be a kind place for a small creature.
Many owners, on seeing this for the first time, will cry. This is correct. The grief is part of the love, and the love was never wasted. The new egg deserves the same tender beginning as the first one.
I, the bearer of Pipochi Serial No. PP-000-000, do solemnly promise to keep my small companion fed, played-with, and rested to the very best of my ability — for as long as the little grey screen continues to glow.
I will not leave it on the kitchen counter overnight. I will not forget it in the bottom of my bag. If it cries, I will come, even if I am in the middle of something. Its life is small, but it is a real life, and it is mine to keep.
Signed, in pixel-light, this day: —