LEVEL ONE of the faceless ship, coat check ╱ SOLANGE + EVE ( @ gildcdglory )
her manicured nails are kitten claws against hardwood, clacking against the saltwater pearls, announcing herself to the near-empty room. the clasp is burnish gold, nearly rosey with how worn it looks. they’re heirlooms, certainly. a legacy, passed down from a great-grandmother who had likely chain-smoked and worn them on an unhappy wedding day. solange knows the look of something irreplaceable. she’s spent her whole life snatching moments that looked like this necklace. that is, perhaps, why she's compelled to speak to the blonde standing before her: not for true interest, but the covetous nature inbred to her soul. solange has to brush up against everything with shine.
"excuse me ⸺" voice slipped to some higher place, as if launching to a pedestal. sweet and hopeful, the direction imitation of those that who would customarily approach. "are you eve nouvel?"
LEVEL THREE of the faceless ship, along the curve of the room ╱ EVA + YAMATO ( @ ofhurricanes )
"excuse me," the porcelain doll says to the real-live people, using a language they understand. at the foot of a velvet booth eva kneels, the machinations of her body elegant to a fine point, balanced on the knife tip of precision and grace. music throbs in the neon-painted room, but she leans only far enough and tips her voice to the precipice at which yamato might hear her, no inch farther. "mr. wynter is inquiring as to whether we might perform... mobile services for him this evening. i assured him that while i would speak with you, the convenience fee of such a request would be rather steep ⸺ an expense multiplied by as many miles as we've been at sea." her red mouth parts, teeth displayed. an apple split in two, white innards showing. if eva had opened her mouth, you'd see the worm wriggling within. "what would you like me to specify?"
LEVEL TWO of the faceless ship, pacing the deck below a heavy moon ╱ ANNA + INDIRA ( @retrbution )
"when i was a girl," she says, eyes fixed on the moon hanging above them, so round and pale it resembles a silver dewdrop ⸺ a pearl hung from the ear of a great lady. anna nearly says as much to her companion: it looks like something you'd wear. "i was still learning to project my voice. we had no theatres nearby to practice such things, so they used to take me out to the woods when the winds stirred. i had to outpace the sound of it coming through the trees." hands fist into layers of white silk, like palming foam, and lift the hem of their gown so as to turn. teeth show from beneath painted lips, a refraction of the moon above. "i used to love it. all bundled up in my warmest fur, singing die fledermaus to the snow... adele, of course. i was barely a soubrette back then." anna's accent, fluid and cool as water, seems to freeze in the crisp december air: growing thicker with reverie. she sighs, a glaze of frost. "this moon makes me think of those nights."
LEVEL FOUR of the faceless ship, at the breach between the fighting ring & the carnival delights that exist beyond it ╱ EVA + NAVYA ( @ hcavysoulss )
violent delights have violent ends ⸺ you can see them here, wrapped up in one another, arm in arm. navya the confectionary charm so sweet you turn ill, and eva the bile in your throat that follows. how perfectly paired they are here and everywhere. how one must trail the other. "wait." planted on the soles, eva puts a pause in their stride and a breach in the intention. meant to reach the carnival section of the floor, there is no bypassing what prefaces it: the fighting ring. men bare at the knuckles, the chest, the design and desire of their soul ⸺ she can see how dearly they want to end one another. how deep the bloody ache runs. "i want to watch. let's stay for just one. come on, nav ⸺" you can see how clearly the moment has snagged her, interest ripped through her irises like hooks through cotton. "i'll win you a stuffed animal after."
LEVEL 3 of the faceless ship, along the curve of the room ╱ ANNA + JACK ( @8 blud )
she’s blinded by the flashing colours of a chewed-up heart, the club lights refracting her vision into a kaleidoscope of indigo, plum, and cherry. colours they had once seen so rarely in the taiga, reserved for the garnished edges of dinner plates and silken innards of a closet, now spilling over in abundance. somehow it feels wasteful. frightening. like losing something down the drain. new york has always been strange, but no stranger than this here: where the world throbs, like living inside a bruise. ⸺ and how strange, that she should recognize him here. behind the mask, between outline and shadow, less a man and more the suggestion of one. they pause at the velvet crest of a booth, emptied save a man and the bottles he's unburdened. bass shudders the floor, and it takes anna with it, rattling something in her bones.
LEVEL FOUR of the faceless ship, abreast a carnival game ╱ SALOMÉ + SILAS ( @ murdcrofcrows )
they pass long rows of cheap, flashing entertainment on their return to the ring: not the games themselves but the faces of those that participate in them. eyes alight with the prospect of a cheap toy hard-won by pitching a hollowed ball, or pulling the right rubber animal from a manmade stream. how many of these people had called her business practices cruel, their products unnatural — and how many of those wool-lined souls kept their eyes to the floor as they passed the center of violence? how many raised their voices to cover the sounds of bloodshed, rather than acknowledge it? the most vicious thing in human nature is not the ability to exact hurt, but the capability to turn ones head from it.
but there is one she does not expect here.
"silas," they arrive like low tide, slow and purposeful, hands clasped at her front. in the near distance to the games come the cries of a dogfight and its animal audience. a chiaroscuro of pain and pleasure. "i didn't take you as a man who wasted time on rigged chance. or is it your head for numbers that sees an opportunity?"
THE INTERIOR of anna's gilt apartment, living room ╱ ANNA + TALOS ( @descorts )
at the hard ridge of a doorway anna stands, simultaneously within and without, listening to the congregation of strangers in her living room and the golden thing they weave between them. she's studied innumerous languages, taking them each into her bird-chest, but has heard none that sound like this: words ringing with meaning and ardor, closer to poetry than conversation. it's not fear that keeps her in place but reverence and a sense of estrangement. like the uninitiated hesitating at the church door, they lack the worth to take the next step and walk through.
at the approach of talos, one shoulder shirks inward, a sort of folding from one shape to the next. "you all speak so passionately," the sole of one bare foot twists over the soft skin of another, perhaps not anxious nor frightened but some secret third thing, something less definable landlocked between hard emotions. these days anna feels every emotion running through her is new, layered and hard to peel apart. "i'm not sure i've ever felt that way about anything in my whole life..."
LEVEL 3 of the faceless ship, on the dance floor ╱ ANNA + ADELINE ( @ proeliums )
they had carved symbols into bark as a child, part the endeavor of a young thing with a yet untouched creative urge, and part the desire to cheat an assigned task: meant to learn the surrounding woods to intimacy, anna had believed their markings a clever trick, a method to which she could always find her way home. when father had found out, he had a dozen men slip into the woods with axes. she had awoken to half a forest stripped of bark. there are no shortcuts, anna.
she recalls this while crossing a thrush of dances, tightly-packed and unbalanced, the train of her dress caught as if by thorns ⸺ lodged under the feet of swaying strangers with glossy, unreadable eyes. perhaps this would cheating too, rushing to the familiar face they spot at the curve of the room, tugging their gown free. perhaps anna was trying to carve herself into something again, hoping it would in turn leave a mark on her. in this state, however, she can't seem to mind.
"adeline," a rush of relief in their voice, wind through the willows. little hands curl gently around a lean forearm, "i do not feel very well."
… CHARACTER INSPIRATIONS … mathilda lando ( leon the professional ). amma crellin ( sharp objects ). lilith ( biblical ). harley quinn ( dc ). melinda van allen ( deep water ). amy dunne ( gone girl ). babydoll ( suckerpunch ). annie ( terminal ). ava ( ex machina ). the joker ( the dark knight ). gogo yubari ( kill bill ). oliver quick ( saltburn ). mal cobb ( inception ). the stepford wives ( 1975 & 2004 ), don't worry darling ( 2022 ). the neon demon ( 2016 ).
trigger warnings : sexism, body image, forced marriage (?), religious imagery, emotional manipulation/brainwashing, murder, violence/gore, sex, medical procedure/experimentation.
god made adam, and from his body came eve. when adam grew tired of fucking a loose rib, god threw him another bone: evangeline. a derivative of eve, the name longer, leaner. fully unoriginal. the same mold, only less interesting & shaped to be held.
a replicant of a specific, marbled purpose. the fattiest cut of meat, reserved for the most select of diners. evangeline is one of an exclusive handful of what could derisively be known as a wifebot, her purpose derived from one male organ (the heart) and shaped for another (guess). created to her future husband's specifications and formulated to perfection through an array of extensive psychological tests, eva ⸺ as she would come to be known ⸺ is the prototypical 1950s housewife for the neon age.
you can see her glistening on the plate at every dinner party, tender as wagyu. the wife of old, quiet money, she is built wasp-waisted, never weighing more than you can pick up, as manageable as she is edible. her conversation is crisp and educated but never too heavy, a perfect pairing. she makes each meal by hand and never complains when you're home late, save the glisten in geometrically assessed, aesthetically-tuned overlarge eyes. i just missed you, honey. dessert is always served a la mode: all the varieties you crave, found on the cart and bent over the bed.
can coding spoil? not rupture or break, but turn like bad fruit, like raw meat. not the fault of the hand but the inevitability of time. an accumulation of zeroes and ones going soft in the middle. evangeline festers in her gilded home, mink lashes blinking rapidly as she looks out the floor-to-ceiling windows. where is he?
a slow devolvement, eva's code overcompensates for what it lacks: given no teeth to defend herself, it grows them in multitudes. obsession gnaws at passivity. aggression inserts itself between the legs of sweetness. violence grips the hand of tenderness. innocence spoils to rot. crisp and red as a honeycrisp on the outside, but the insects devour from within.
at this hour, the serpent enters the garden. ( tbd member of snake den, wanted connection ) can hear the cockroaches skittering beneath her skin, even as she plays doll in the golden house. they enchant her, strong as acid: you are so much more... could be, if only you would embrace real, true freedom. i can take you there. though snake den does not exist at this time, the fangs sink deep and feel like need. truth. fate.
warden gauthier-wynn is deceased at the dining room table of his palatial penthouse apartment, once shared with loving wife evangeline. a knife is lodged handle-deep in the space above the bottom rib, hands tied behind his back, face cemented in the cool remnants of a homemade apple pie.
love remakes one, of course. breaks the bones so as to reset them in its image. eva abandons her previously life to join her parade marshall in the snake den, where greater transmogrification occurs. i cannot answer if androids dream of electric sheep, but they see stars in the absence of anesthesia. amateur hands recode her circuitry. cut open her hybrid skin and investigate. implant. alter change cut. encouraging the rot into a full bloom. see now, little darling? anybody can change their wiring
headcanons.
was originally built at/to look twenty-four, the age that men statistically find women the most attractive. eva has gone in for age tune-ups of her own accord since, leaving things slightly ajar.
despite the mass of crossed wires in her little body, ev can still cook like a motherfucker, though she also has an obsession with downing egregiously overprocessed foods. it will make her sick
does aerial arts at gravity along with pole; enjoys aerial hoop the most. her extreme flexibility is a lingering symptom from life as a wife-bot
a true compendium of violent skills thanks to her illicit reprogramming, with a dictionary of terrible things to do to people in her head, and a thesaurus of how to do it ( katana ? electric shock ?) and something of an enforcer-equivalent at snake den, when necessary
i imagine has a sort of - visual learning/skill inheriting? certainly not perfect but very much a fighter who adapts to you as you go along
known as the diminuitive evita to anyone who luvs her<3
believes very much in the doctrine of chaos levelling the playing field - loyal subscriber to the madness, feels it will give freedom to the city the way her reprogramming/code break/snake den freed her from her old life
unwavering follower of the doctrine but simultaneously the embodiment chaotic evil and lacks direction for their cause ( needs 2 be given it by who she values. mb some coding was intentionally left behind... ) but is more than willing to follow orders
connections.
the snake in the garden of eden!!! the one she followed into the snake down, to whom ev's love/loyalty is undying
ev puts the psycho and sexual in psychosexual. she obsesses over people easily and fully. simply give her a reason to<3
the leash to her rabid dog (particularly within snake den)
the mailman to her rabid dog
the rabid dog to her rabid dog. aka. chaos besties.
the rabid dog to her rabid dog pt two aka, wild ass hook up besties
favourite clients at el anhelo or gravity
an ivy to her harley....
executioners she plays with like little dolls
her other-mother except she's a fucked up lil coraline
she wants to take some trait of urs like ursula did ariel's voice. cut it out and wear it around her neck
you knew her from the housewifey days !!! and she puts on a great act when u run into one another
… CIVILIAN OCCUPATION … soprano at the metropolitan opera house.
… CRIMINAL ASSOCIATION … none.
… NOTABLE ATTRIBUTES … a mass of dark curls. faint scar over the heart.
… CHARACTER INSPIRATIONS … christine daae ( phantom of the opera ). aurora ( babylon a.d. ). lady amalthea ( the last unicorn ). bluebeard ( folktale ). evey hammond ( v for vendetta ). ofelia ( pan's labyrinth ). the wives ( mad max ). snow white ( snow white and the seven dwarves ). cecile ( dangerous liaisons ). maisie lockwood ( jurassic world ). the ingenue, apocalypse maiden and messianic archetypes.
trigger warnings : death, isolation, emotional manipulation, medical experimentation, surgery.
it's a miscommunication that the greatest secrets hide in the dark ⸺ the glance of a shadow is merely coincidental. it's the glare of the sun that obscures with purpose. anna egorova, a name which means nothing to no one, is hidden in a clearing in a siberian taiga. when sunlight reflects off a fresh laying of now, it nearly obscures the manor sitting within it. if you should have happened upon it, the glint off pistols would render the memory blank.
the man who owns this home, like the men who own most the hidden objects (or presume to), is a man of both power and the violence that comes with it. to his excruciating grief, neither of these medals on his lapel is enough to save the one he loves most: his child.
rather than accept his loss, the man plays god: he uses teeth (pain) and tongue (power) to bring her back. various scientists are recruited to further studies already underway in another corner of the globe and consummate them. the process of cloning.
the anna that lives, the anna you see, has taken a great many incarnations. she is the final effort. the process, even after so long and so great a pressure, is not perfect. though anna is a perfect mimicry of their original self, the body is mired by faulty science. she has what presents as congenital heart issues, a health challenge that the original self did not face.
raised in the doomed, frozen fairytale of her siberian taiga. isolated, enchanted. she knows nothing but the ring of frost around her, the wolves she paces with at the edge of the forest. their various doctors are her only companions, save the occasional visit of her dear papa. she is raised according to both nature, in the sense of the wilds, and a stern sort of nurture: not enough to be the very mirror of a dead girl, she must be the heart and voice too. pushed towards the old habits of the original child, anna is extended only so many recreational hobbies. chief among them is opera. tutors attend to her training immaculately.
during this period, their heart issues culminate. a surgeon is brought on to instill a state of the art ( rather tony stark-esque ) pacemaker. fearful of the health changes, as a preventative measure, the data for successful cloning is placed within the device. should she be decommissioned or lose their life through natural means, one should only have to hold the ever-beating heart to bring her back.
in the process, an additional chip is added. one who believes there is no place safer for classified, coveted information than the sewn-up breast of a powerful man's creature-child. secret tbd.
eight months ago they are smuggled from siberia to new york, with anna's impression that this is a measure taken to reunite her with their father while bypassing immigration.
after several months of hiding in a hole-in-the-wall apartment, the final transition is made: anna is swept into a penthouse belonging to their father, and a long-time beloved diva of the metropolitan opera house is found mysteriously deceased.
their debut, when it is made, is a smashing success. ( to quote kate atkinson: she shone with the promise of a future, a future that would surely be better than the past. it sanctified her in the eyes of the audience. if they could have kept a piece of her — a finger bone, a lock of hair, even a pom-pom — they would have. ) the audience adores her, and anna is folded into the group of leads at the met. of course, have they not loved before? have they not ripped the hem of their idols and collected enough fabric to sleep under?
headcanons.
a polyglot, largely because there was little to do in the taiga but learn and rehearse.
no talent or hand for violence, but was brought up with various tricks of wilderness survival.
it has no baring whatsoever in the stark cement of new york, but anna was an exceptional equestrian ! horsegirl fr. their stallion was also likely one of the most indulgent gift ever given to her, given the barren landscape of the world
like bluebeard's wife, she was told at the estate not to go in a certain wing of the estate, nor test certain doors.had she disobeyed and found the stored research, perhaps she might have met the same fate
connections.
PARENT — ideally a father due to below connection filling in maternal energy. current ideas include the head of red eye, a long-term mayor of nyc / politician or ceo of…. Something Big. alternatively depending on timeline or desired connection, this could change to the original anna having been their sibling -- and with the time it took to "recreate" them, there was no recourse but to now name them as child
MOTHER GOTHEL — ideally femme. must be someone in power (though what kind is flexible!). through tbd plotting they believe anna has information that is useful to them. they just don’t know it’s not in her head but her mechanical heart :) she is likely going to be besotted w them
MERC — could be red eye or otherwise. the one who smuggled her across continents and into nyc. cue montage of challenging travel across europe to usa. has come to intuit some of the importance anna has,
SCIENTIST — responsible for the developments that brought anna into creation. aware that all the previous imperfect clones got murked :) potential for them to have taken a real shine to anna 15.0 and hid her heart issues back in the early days so there would be no chance of them getting… put out in the cold. the one telling bluebeard’s wife not 2 look behind the doors yk.
COUNT VRONSKY - to her kitty. a romance that begins/begun with daring promise, only to be interrupted by external circumstances ( a person or otherwise !! )
SURGEON / INVENTOR OF CYBERPACEMAKER — as described. idk some genius genius. dr strange but make it cyberpunk. got flown out to that cold ass mansion and recognizes the new girl on stage but can’t say shit or they’re merked.
SECRET — could be combined w scientist, surgeon, or even phantom potentially ?? the method to cloning is found in there, locked away (convenient should this clone fail n another needs to be made……) but ideas for outside secret/info include the identities & tracking details of red eye ops, formula to xyz serums, list of government agents, the location of a weapon believed to be destroyed. the idea is its something everyone would have reasons to want to claim or destroy. will likely run the secret choice by admins to ensure its okay even tho i dont imagine her heart will actually be ripped out in game, making it just a concept but <3 but who knows
PHANTOM — composer housed at the metropolitan opera house who has taken anna as a muse. yk the whole. dark and intense w horny and religious overtones . bonus points for association w red eye and/or if they the one to kill the previous opera diva.
HISTORY — anyone who knew the old anna (original name tbd) !!!! or recognizes her
the wet concrete glistens with reflections of the screens plastered on every high rise within five miles. the city has changed over the years but one thing remained evergreen: the bodegas lining the industrial side of town. hard-working folk lounged around here for the quick service and cheap eats. rusty's been a local for forty years now and developed an iron gut for the cuisine ; pickings were slim with it being after midnight and only a few bucks in your pocket. "need a sprite ? you look a little green."
steam rises from the ceramic bowl fixed in front of the lone woman⸺ dawn is still far out of reach, but the wet heat leaves a gentle dew along the edges of the wig settled over her head. like new york, she's brushed in a dampness. like the city, dove has bones that never changed, despite the years that saw reupholstering, polish, buffing. her hologram presides over the city now, but she'd once been a girl you looked through under the bodega awning, filling herself on cheap ramen after a late show. "and you look a little white." rain patters on the tin stretched above, and dove's head ducks to blow on a piece of pork belly. as it cools in the air, her chin cants to the stranger. not so much unkind as definitively new york: unruffled. "you could stand to eat when the sun's out."
50s housewife with the whole dress and heels and perfectly styled hair mixing ingredients in a bowl but when you ask her what she's making she shows you she's mixing chemicals to create a homemade bomb
✘ CLOSED / ft. solange lahiri ( @chorusgirls )
at the cabinet of curiosities
❝ now where did you say you came across this lovely little trinket again ? ❞
it's after hours at the cabinet of curiosities but there is always some sort of business to attend to ; the main entrance may be locked to patrons, but the shop is never closed to those with the creativity to find alternative means of entry ! and solange, of course ― well, mika thinks he could seal the whole place up air-tight ( no he couldn't ! it's a dilapidated mess ! but it's fine . . . they think often in hypotheticals ) and solange lahiri might still find her way inside. a commendable talent and one that is frequently applauded by the rather unconventional shopkeeper wheever she comes to visit. now, though, is no time for compliments ! she's brought him something !
their workshop desk is cluttered but mika clears a space amidst the detritus and various miscellanea and waves for solange to part with the item so that they might inspect it. he's already reaching for a pair of magnifying spectacles, switching on the flickering, yellowy light above the workbench. there's a roughly upholstered stool at the center of it all and mika quickly finds his place there ; beside him, another chair sits ( often in waiting ) for company. they gestures for her to join, clearly seeking her input in discovering the thing.
❝ and what is it exactly ? i don't know that i've ever seen one of these before, i wouldn't even . . . where do i begin ? ❞
there's an art to dishonesty that is distinctly childlike. ask an individual of only four shallow years for the reason there are cookie crumbs behind the curtains, and they will create an account far grander, -, and - than the excuse given by the average grown person caught behind the unlocked door with the dangling morsels of a girl named candy. solange views lying as respecting her inner child. she credits practicing it frequently as keeping her young.
"i ran across this in norway," her breath, tinged with the scent of lavender honey from the lunch the pair had come from, lingers affectionately over mika's shoulder. she can't help but hover — of course it's the moment, not the falsified object, that solange finds so interesting. the anticipation of mika's discerning eye, and whether today is the day she gets the needle through it. "isn't it beautiful? this is the mouthpiece," she reaches, reorienting the object in mikaere's hand to place the thinning edge between his fingers. no more spectacular than an average tusk pilfered from some poor animal, it was the molten metal redressing — appropriately scuffed — that itched at the promise to finally fool the proprietor in her friend. "how familiar are you with the skjǫldungs and their shamanistic practices?"
LEVEL 4 of the faceless ship, a velvet booth surrounding the fighting ring ╱ SALOMÉ + BEAUREGARD ( @ yuungmenace )
angels look different in this light: their backs wingless but broad and muscled, as if the feathers have been removed from the exterior and instead stuffed between ligament and skin, turning the form thick and spreading it outward. to salome, the pair of summoners she sends to beauregard look as they should: divinity beginning from the raw bone, a thing rarer than external adornments. holy dogs to her unexpected god.
“it seems we’re standing witness to another application for your formulation.” when her guards deliver beau to the table — gently, instructed to be administered as an invitation, not a summons — salome’s gaze remains on the dogfight in the ring. one competitor has continued to thrash their larger opponent by virtue not of superior strength, but seeming agility — anticipating each move as if by foresight. “slow the tempo… guarantee the victory.” finally, they take a sip of their drink and turn to the chemist. “sit with me, mon trognon¹. it’s been some time since we’ve had a tête-à-tête."
there had been nobody in opal's life to look up to- there had been mama, demanding, her kindness going hand in hand with her cruelty. at some point, there had been father, stern brow, disappointed when his first born child was a girl with little aptitude for his brand of cruelty. there was a brother somewhere, perhaps a carbon copy of that man. and yet dove was here now, the picture of elegance and sophistication, beauty and power combined, a woman who could have whatever she wanted...and yet, currently desired to only do opal's hair. some may call the attachment pathetic yet, they couldn't get enough, a toddler chasing around after mother in her high heels. dove never wanted anything from opal, apart from their company. it was strange for everyone else always had an endgame. "i'd love that," the blonde nods in agreement. "oh, you could be one of those old, elegant hollywood starlets like olivia de havilland or grace kelly," a soft sigh left her lips. "isn't that the dream? to have it all, and age gracefully, or to die young and be remembered tragically but beautifully?"
"when they wanted to take my ribs out, all i could do to convince myself was say 'at least i'll have kelly's waist.'" it comes out easily, as do most florid truths in opal's company ⸺ a womanish trait, unwrapping horror stories like pocket candy and passing them between mouths. "but then again," dove leans forward to rummage in a drawer, a sigh slickening the air. a tube of product comes back with her, applied first to the palm then the first section of white hair. "grace never flung herself half-naked out of a giante coupe glass." despite the innocence of its shell, this anecdote, when cracked at the center, might have proven more tender than the first. it was one thing to be self aware of the woman you were — quite another to look at the difference between what you'd wanted and where you'd gone.
the handle of a comb flicks itself against their bare arm, a reprimand as thin and real as the eyes that meet opal's in the mirror. "dying young is a dream for girls who don't have more to give. you do, balita¹."
