THAT POSTURE, THE ONE THAT IS OF A WOMAN SITTING TALL, UNAFRAID is the sort of thing that Teela can see coming a MILE OFF. Her own lips hook in a half-shorn sneer that has as much effort in it as she expends into the SCOFF she spits out.
Teela leans back in her chair, the shimmering fabric of her gown catching the dim light as she regards Edith suddenly with a bemused smile. The air crackles with tension, electric & palpable, and she can feel the simmering impatience radiating from the other woman. It is an intoxicating mix, the way Edith blends defiance with saccharine compliments — a perfect recipe for manipulation, and Teela is more than ready to stir the pot.
❝ Ah, Edith, ❞ she begins, her voice smooth as silk, yet laced with an edge that could cut glass. ❝ You flatter me, darling. A welcoming scent? But beneath my charm lies a determination you should not underestimate. ❞
Teela's cybernetic eyes flicker with amusement as she watches Edith tap her fingers, seemingly unfazed by the looming presence of that which is herself. ❝ Impatience is a cruel mistress, isn’t it? You would do well to remember that true power lies not in rashness but in the art of patience and cunning. Yes, you may sit there, defiantly challenging me in your own way, but it’s not false bravado that will win this game. No, it’s the subtlety of the serpent, the dance of shadows, that will dictate our fates. & that's what you see yourself as correct — the serpent? But let’s not forget, you, my charming little snake, are simply a chapter in a much larger story. ❞
The corner of her mouth curls into a smile as she leans in, allowing her voice to drop to a conspiratorial whisper. ❝ You speak of three kinds of snakes, yet you overlook the fourth: the one that wraps around its prey and whispers sweet promises, only to consume everything left in its wake. A word of advise, if you so choose to take it, trust me, love, the real game is much more intricate. ❞
They forget she has the ENTIRE WORLD at her fingertips & endless hours to peruse it. Her mind is more than a lockbox of all the information pored over, more than all the moves & twists & punches thrown that she used to ingest only to learn how to mock her own body into the fray. She can be taken down, but she will always come back with a vengeance.
& while the similarities between them are palpable, the differences between them are oceans apart. Teela pulled the trigger when she needed to, Edith hadn't been fast enough when it came time for her to draw in the completions of her aspirations. They both know who has the real power here, despite appearances.
❝ But seriously, nows not the time to be so over the top. We're here to have fun. ❞ she extends an ELEGANT arm like a cat unfurling in the sun ( no matter how she lacks the warmth ) before leaning her chin on it. They’re AT ODDS in repose like this: Edith, with her eyes searching for what Teela could only guess were the others & herself, open & comfortable. & yet in the space marked by the other woman's jade quartz-ed gaze & her statuesque exterior, they are a powerful sight, seemingly GLITTERING in an almost gemstone resplendence. ❝ Though we are remarkably more alike than you’d think, ❞ She studies the bridge of a manicured nail momentarily. ❝ so perhaps it’s not so out of character. ❞ With a flick of her wrist, Teela raises her glass in a toast, her voice taking on a mockingly playful tone. ❝ So, cheers to our little arrangement, to the shadows we navigate, and the treasures we seek. ❞ Cheers to getting the job done.
In a game of chess one must move strategically so as to not allow their opponent to violate a weakness. Edith had lined up her defenses to protect her king, she showed no signs of fear--and most importantly, she played on the offense. The Tax Collector, however, was able to end their game early with a checkmate. Her exposed weakness? The lack of true power. Edith the root but the collector the dirt she needed to grow. The snapping serpents head but the god hand her poisonous fangs. On the board she might be the king, but the godhand was a magnetic board moving the game along without even being seen.
Others in the room move about with the noise of the crowd waxing and waning. They are oblivious to the game that is always in motion, not that they really had any control over something that would affect them so much. The woman sat in front of her, in a sparkling gown that called for attention. The master of fate need not hide in the shadow, for she is cloaked in the fabric of eternal life. To this Edith let the taste of vermouth swirl down her throat as she gripped the base of the crystal glass. She did not interrupt the veiled threats and warnings from Teela’s perfectly lined lips, but instead nodded. For the truth lay, if the god hand were capable of finding their killer themselves -- these serpents would not be circling each other, swallowing their own tails.
Those who tracked and slit the throats of The God Hand, singular? Or many? There was excitement in coming to face he who slayed Goliath. Edith herself had never seen all of their faces in their current state at once, an air of secrecy always surrounded them. Whoever this power was, was not only bold but capable. In another world, she would make them an ally. And at the very least, she would make their death quick in their reality. How kind of them to save her the headache of these nagging, boring, tedious demands from the group. And she did enjoy her time off from the reminder of her station. As they recouped their heads, she reigned as queen for a day.
The act continues. The smaller brunette matches the irritating smile of the woman in front of her, jaw relaxed, hand unclenched but now holding the stem, lazily. Another swig coats her tongue as she continues to play the actual hand in front of her, raising her bets. “To the shadows,” she retorts with the same candor of Teela’s singeing tongue.
“ The work is in motion and I have heard, the band is not quite back together yet.” She places her glass down, swirling the rim with her finger. Her delicate milky hand reaches out to grab Teela’s own, dropping a small red vial in her palm from the sleeve of her dress. “The key to driving the rats out of their nest.”
𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐘 𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐍𝐒 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐈𝐍 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐈𝐑, 𝐀 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐄𝐓 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐍 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐋𝐈𝐏𝐒 𝐀𝐒 𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐒 𝐀 𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐏 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐒, 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄 𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐎 𝐒𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐋𝐘 𝐀𝐒 𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐒 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐁𝐘 𝐎𝐍𝐄. The dim lights of the casino dance around him, reflecting off the polished blackjack table like glittering stars and illuminating the faces of eager gamblers and overzealous dealers. The air, laden with the scent of expensive perfumes and the murmur of a crowd, paints an interesting backdrop for where he finds himself; down on his luck, the kind of luck that saw him trade in high-stake bounty chases for the flickering lights of a blackjack table.
Lesley’s been alone and content during his time at the table until a woman’s quiet presence makes him look up at the world. He’s met by a striking beauty– older, refined, powerful. He feels all too soon like a fish eyeing the hook. Her long, dark hair frames a face that holds enigmatic calm, and her eyes– deep, contemplative, hungry– scan the table as if she’s assessing more than just the game.
When their eyes meet, he flashes her a grin and a quick sideways wink. He feels like a magnet being drawn to its opposite, but it's a futile and fickle amusement. Lesley has the poor man’s consolation of being miles below her echelon, so to speak. It’s an estimation anyone with their wits about them can make at a glance; the most he can do is impress her by winning the game or keeping his mouth shut and being easy on the eyes, and hope no one recognizes him.
When the dealer deals the first round, Lesley watches as she studies her cards with deliberate calm. Her expression is inscrutable, and he finds himself leaning in, eager to see how she’ll play. Meanwhile, he splits his cards with a shaky hand, hoping to claw back some of his losses, but all eyes are on her.
She places her bet– a bold move that makes the dealer consider the ones in front of them. Lesley has seen countless of hopefuls come and go, but something about the way she treats the cards is different. As the dealer reveals the next card, she doesn’t hesitate; she doubles down, raising her bet significantly. A collective murmur ripples through the table, the other players glancing at one another, their curiosity piqued.
He looks at his cards, eighteen. After a sensible pause, Lesley flicks the chip to his left hand and waves off his right. Stand. Eighteen is a safe number. The game proceeds along the table, but Lesley is still holding his breath for the woman beside him.
❛❛ What’s your strategy ? ❜❜ He asks, unable to contain his fascination. ❛❛ Going for broke ? ❜❜
Edith does not hold the humility to engage in the act of coyness. To pretend to hide her gaze when he meets hers. A hawk circles their prey for miles calling to the world and saying, I am the angel of death. So her eyes remained locked on him, waiting for a sign of weakness. The second guessing of a word, the refusal to meet her eye, fear in the smoothing of his jeans. Is he a mouse avoiding his death, or a sailor knowingly entering the sea to be met in death by the kiss of the siren. Amusement dances in her eye as she files away the man’s features. His eyes are dark in more than just color, his hands dishonorably calloused, and his clothes plain and boring. Without a more poetic expression, he is rugged and much older than what she usually likes.
Her eyes continue to shift onto him and barely, if ever, looks to the other members at the table, and never--at all, to the dealer. There is however, a playful smirk as those around her groan as she raises her bets. Her goal is not to win but the pleasure in watching others suffer. Gambling amongst the rich was dull. The difference between losing one hundred credits and a one hundred thousand was nothing. Amongst the poor filled her with excitement, amused by the way their eyes studied the dealer's hand in anticipation, the pure desperation over such a nominal amount of money. It was intoxicating to feed off of grief, and, she enjoyed artificially increasing the stakes at the table. Even at this table she could play God amongst the people who did not know she was seated at his right hand each day.
And then he tells, the brief motion in his hand that signals to her his fault. How endearing is the weakness of a man. Her fingers tap the table as she is dealt a four of hearts. Twenty. Luck is seated in her lap tonight. Slyness tugs at the corners of her mouth as she beams a smile towards the gentleman- no, the prey beside her.
“Broke would be on the assumption that I will lose,” she taps her red nails one by one against the edge of the table as she speaks. “ Though, those concerned with losing almost never win.” She extends her hand to him, but not for a handshake, her fingers bent in front of him lazily with the assumption that he will bend to her.
𝐈𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐳𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐮𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐝… Welcome, CONNIE ZHANG. You have successfully been loaded into THE HUB. According to our records, you are THIRTY-TWO and have held citizenship for THIRTY-TWO YEARS in the barrier city, Neo California. Your key attributes have been identified as COMPASSIONATE and RECKLESS. Please confirm your CHAOTICALLY GOOD morality to proceed. Our data indicates that you are currently employed with STRIPPER AT HEAVEN'S NIGHT/GO-GO DANCER @ ELYSIUM. For your safety and security, it is crucial that all background information is accurate. Further analysis of our archives highlights your alignment with at least PARANOIA, CYBERDRUNK, GOLDEN RETRIEVERS and or CYBER STOCKHOLM SYNDROME BY RINA . ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ Verification 100% complete. Please adhere to all local regulations and laws during your stay. We trust that your time here will be both fulfilling and safe.
…LOADING file --- BEWARE resident under extreme stress. Utilize caution when approaching.
I’m restless. Things are calling me away. My hair is being pulled by the stars again.
File empty. Images of poverty and hunger flash across the screen. A mother entering a dark room with a strange man in exchange for four hunger curbing cubes. A father covering his daughters eyes. ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ X INTERRUPTION [Welcome to LuLus Dating Sim! Will you date the stereotypical mafia boss? Or the kind, but poor baker? Enter ten more credits for diamonds to access special endings.] File recovered. A young girl eats from the trash. Three sleep in a single closet tenement, with a brain trip. Men hover over the women like vultures, waiting for a moment to swoop in and eat their prey. The girl knows she must provide.
…LOADING FILE: CURRENT STATE
FILE WARNING RESIDENT UNDER EXTREME STRESS, PLEASE PROCEED WITH CAUTION IN FILES> EXIT SCAN. SUBJECT UNABLE TO TELL REALITY FROM FICTION. SCANNING MAY LEAD TO FURTHER DISTRESS AND ERRATIC BEHAVIOR. File recovered. Images flash of the young girl now woman, still residing in the same tenement. The space has grown to two resting pods except one. The woman leaves at night to enter and work various clubs. Her body the prize, her mind the victim. FIFTEEN THOUSAND HOURS OF BRAIN TRIPS LOGGED. LOGGED GAMES: LULUS DATING SIM, ANNIE’S DATING SIM, BAKERS LOVER DATING SIM, MY VAMPIRE GIRLFRIEND, RACE FOR THE THRONE: LOVERS PACK, DIGITAL DOG SIM, KING’S DINING HALL SIM, DIGITAL DOG FRIEND 1, DIGITAL DOG FRIEND 2, DIGITAL DOG FRIEND 3 - THE DOGGIEST [ WARNING POP-UP, exceeding FIVE THOUSAND brain trip hours can have significant long-term consequences]
▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ X CORRUPTED MENTAL FILE ! ABORT SCAN! RESIDENT AWARE!
NO,nonono.
You’re not real, I am not listening to you.
Don’t look at me like that Pete.
…LOADING FILE: HEADCANNONS_ LORE
Connie has found her brain in irreparable damage after playing too many animal, eating and dating sims. When she looks at people, she sees pre-selected responses. She sees faces and animals that aren’t there.
Her psychosis went from borderline funny to scary, real fast. She is often seen talking to a figure named “Pete”. An evil digital golden retriever who apparates in her reality, that she can touch, be bitten by, and hear. Pete’s request have gotten more malevolent as the time goes on.
Connie has been losing time, waking up in strange places. Sometimes blood in her hands, sometimes additional credits in her account from a source unknown.
Connie is recklessly good. Take a stranger home and let them sleep if they’re cold, good. Ignore Pete’s warnings kind of good. Give you her last credit if it means you can eat, she can always just watch an eating sim to feel full. She will give all that she has, even if it leaves her with nothing.
Connie is NAIVE and often gets herself into trouble. The type to join a cult or gang by accident if the pay is good and the people seem kind.
…LOADING FILE: WANTED_CONNECTIONS
PLEASE DON’T DIE?: Someone who is very concerned for Connie’s wellbeing, a friend. This could have developed at the club, or between two very poor kids growing up in the tenement.
EASY TO USE: Someone who is malevolent and feeds on Connie’s naivety for their own good. Taking a portion of her dancing money with a sob story.
LOVE CRAZY: Someone, who despite Connie’s obvious failed mental state, is still enamored by her deeply kind and reckless nature. The antithesis of her dating sim.
Those with something to be prove covet being noticed. Wish for being envied. Who wishes not to be seen veils their face and calls the attention of those around them to wonder, who are they? To hide in plain sight is to say, [I do not fear what you might hear, for those who betray me blood will circle my drain].
Her dress says nobody, but maybe somebody. She hides amongst the roaches and the rats. Dressed simple, in simple synthetic fabric built by nano silkworms. The cape drapes her shoulder like a hero or a villian, she is neither and she is both. Depending, of course, on whose eyes look upon her. Though she purposely adorns herself in what might be considered modest, a mother figure -- someone to trust. She exudes something that says, [kneel in front of me and I shall feast on you.]
She dresses out of practicality, and for nothing else. Heels for height and safety. What appears of mirrors and gems adorned upon her clavicle, to block her face from any CTV and private phones. The way she styles her hair is only to hold a disarming French pin, her safety net- her crutch. Everything about her is calculated. Tonight she is no-one and everyone, but only to those who climb above the sewage of the city know-- she is the only one. [I am the only one, only one, the yearning one.]
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐎'𝐒 𝐏𝐔𝐋𝐒𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐀𝐌𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 has a much similar air to the usual Neo California lifestyle causing Teela to wear both charisma and malice on her sleeve despite it being as ANATHEMA as oil & water. 𝐄𝐗𝐇𝐈𝐁𝐈𝐓 𝐀: the deep rage buried within her as a cloak of protection, the reality of her first failure as a leader that has been damn near untouchable since The God Hand's inception. Then everything else: the weight of the world on her shoulders, the power she has managed to claim and nurture, how she could barely trust anyone to play their own parts to perfection. You remember you hold the power of life and death in your hands, yet it's so much more than that & you only realize as much after your body takes a new form despite your mind remaining the same ( but, 𝐄𝐗𝐇𝐈𝐁𝐈𝐓 𝐁: there's some truth displayed in the omnipresence of a woman that has been torn apart & put back together multiple times. Internal scars that work as their own personal roadmap to her past, she grasps onto memories like an OLD FRIEND ; painstakingly preserving them through the tempest in her mind as to never slip into pitfalls of weakness again — learning from life's little deaths, so to speak ).
Running into Edith at the event is, of course, to be expected. Teela, ever the specter in shadows, watches from a distance as Edith steps into the scene. The scent of synthetic silk always amuses her; Edith dresses for both battle and pleasure, a woman who knows how to survive in this world. How quaint. But in a place where despair and greed are more common than air, Teela doesn’t simply survive — she reigns.
Her presence is subtle, yet palpable, like the scent of ozone before a storm. Teela doesn’t need a spectacle to command attention, and tonight, she chooses to let the embers of her power smolder beneath the surface. Her attire is a statement of elegant ruthlessness: a gown woven from iridescent fabric that shifts with every step, blending seamlessly into the digital haze. The only constant is the gleam of silver at her throat — a symbol of her authority and the endless web she weaves.
Teela moves through the floor with grace, a serpent uncoiling, until she’s close enough to catch the gleam of Edith’s gaze at the blackjack table. Ah, how the woman plays her part well — seemingly fragile enough to lure in those who seek to control her, yet with fangs sharp enough to turn the tables at a moment’s notice. A dangerous ally, but Teela never shies from danger. She WELCOMES it.
Without making her presence immediately known, Teela circles, choosing her moment. The cards fall before Edith, but it is the game of life and death they both play that interests Teela more. She watches with cold amusement as Edith’s eyes lock on her chosen victim, the tension rising with every breath. And then, like a shadow manifesting itself from the dim lights of the casino, Teela steps to her side, her voice a silken purr that wraps around Edith like a whispered secret.
❝ Darling Edith, ❞ Teela murmurs, her lips curving into a knowing smile, ❝ still dancing with the devils, I see. But then again, who else would you trust but those who know the steps so well? ❞
She slides gracefully into the seat next to Edith, a subtle gesture of dominance, reminding those who might be watching that she is never far from the heart of the game. Her golden eyes flicker to the dealer for a moment, but they quickly return to Edith, sharp & calculating.
❝ The air here reeks of desperation. How fitting. It seems our little world is teetering on the edge of something… explosive. Yet here you are, calm amidst the chaos, though I can see the weight you carry. It’s almost poetic. ❞ Her smile deepens, a glimmer of something far more INSIDIOUS beneath the charm. ❝ But remember, dear, even the most cunning predator needs allies they can truly rely on. The vultures are circling, and you know how much I despise scavengers. ❞ The message is clear: you still haven't produced the Host that attempted to take me off the board.
Teela’s hand grazes her glass, the amber liquid reflecting the casino’s neon lights as she takes a sip, eyes never leaving the other woman's face.
❝ Shall we remind them who controls the underworld, or will you let the rats think they’ve won? Either way, I’m certain the night holds… possibilities. ❞ Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. ❝ After all, what is the Inferno without a little fire? ❞
Teela leans back, her gaze unwavering, testing, waiting for Edith’s response — knowing full well that their fates are only intertwined in this deadly dance. Their pact, fragile yet potent, is the key to shaping the world beneath the surface. & in this game, Teela always plays to win.
When one makes a deal with a devil they understand two things. One: Despite the fickleness of the human heart, you are in an unbreakable contract. One signed in blood and shaken with spit, an oath she only learned about from her father and other historians--but had assumed had only been a metaphor on the account of her world’s burning Alexandria. That was until she entered into this pact. Her lover a sacrificial lamb as proof of her willingness to enter into the new world. And since she was a quick-witted learner she catches on to learning two: the conditions of your contract are ever-changing and always growing. More taken from you than what was ever promised.
Edith was quite impatient and the burial of her presidential aspirations still wounded in her ribs, she would say heart -- but no one would believe she had one either way. Where she was needed on the ground, her hands in the mud, the ability and freedom to be seen by all and known by few. That was more valuable to her contractual masters than the vanity she sought from the political throne. One would say this dismissal may have influenced the lack of sorrow when the call arrived that all her masters had lost their head. One would say, not her. It is not to be misconstrued that Edith feared those on the other-side of her pact, only that she valued what they offered more than betraying them. Though betrayal was akin to labyrinth without a clear path out. She preferred more calculated risks.
Most would shift in their seat or feel the hair rise on their neck with Disciple’s presence upon them. Yet she sat firmly and defiantly in her chair, signaling that the serpent does not flee for the honey badger. Her eyes flicked to the dealer who laid out a six of spades and without so much as a full breath her siren gaze leers into her victim, who has split and doubled his odds. Red oval nails tap on the card, twenty-one. Her smile is polite and yet irritating and she lazily turns her gaze to her ‘friend’, ally, or perhaps more her debtor. She takes in Teela’s opulent dress and her body that challenges and says--where is the payment I was promised. By the construction of Teela’s sentences she’s almost certain she speaks with the Tax Collector, but one can never be certain. “It’s quite interesting, you always smell the same--” a smirk plays upon her lips, “it’s very welcoming. I’m sure you get that often.” Edith’s demeanor remains polite above the surface, for she wonders -- where is the payment I was promised.
“There are two kinds of snakes. The kind that strikes their prey as they stand before them,” with a tap of her finger she’s entered into another game of blackjack, “and the kind that circles the nest and eats what their prey loves the most.” Jade eyes search the spurious opulence for any other potential Disciple’s lurking in the corners. She pulls two martinis off a passing bar cart, holding her glass tipped towards Teela, before the other has even accepted her drink.
Her voice lowers to a near whisper. “Cheers to a third snake, who feasts on mother bird after she’s eaten all of her children.” Edith was not enacting revenge, she was planning damnation. Her fingers tap again, beckoning the dealer to hit her. Eleven.
Welcome, EDITH BUSCH. You have successfully been loaded into THE HUB. According to our records, you are FORTY-SEVEN and have held citizenship for FORTY-ONE years in the barrier city, Neo California. Your key attributes have been identified as CUNNING and DECEITFUL. Please confirm your MORALLY CROOKED to proceed. Our data indicates that you are currently employed with FBI, DIRECTOR LEVEL. For your safety and security, it is crucial that all background information is accurate. Further analysis of our archives highlights your alignment with at least TAILORED BLAZERS AND FLASK MARTINIS and // FEMME FATALE THE VELVET UNDERGROUND. ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ Verification 100% complete. Please adhere to all local regulations and laws during your stay. We trust that your time here will be both fulfilling and safe.
MOODBOARD | THEME SONG
....file corrupted, encryption [enter password] ACCESS
The world weighed heavily upon her thin frame. More heavily than usual were the ghosts of her past lurking in the corner of every room. She clung to her flask like a crutch guiding her through the shadows of darkness. Without it, her hands are shaky and weak -- a signal to those around her to come in like a vulture hunting its prey. These last few weeks a wind of paranoia circled around her vast apartment, recent mistakes piling in front of her with the putrid stench of body bags. The hologram of the twelve o’clock news still rang in her ear, “ found dead”. Found dead, found dead---found. A mistake in delegating her inferiors to get the job done. Now more journalist would poke their nose in the corners of the underbellies she helped create. Nothing more those pests loved more than a martyr. No matter the number of their colleagues she sent to their early deaths, the more popped up seeking justice. Fools. She was justice and executioner and she would be promised.
Edith did not dream of exposing herself on such a busy night, where half the city would gather like roaches to the same place. Feasting on a measly hundred credits to forgive their government for their corruption, how simple people were. She smirked at the President’s gesture, how brilliant. It still didn’t make her hate the bitch who sat upon her throne any less, the fires from her failed election still fanning within her. Yet still she bid the dirty work of President Steele, for a price of course. Tonight was no different. There was business to be conducted, but not without pleasure first.
She dressed rather unassuming. Only fools stand out and only idiots try to hide. Her body adorned in synthetic silk. A black modest neckline with what looked like tiny mirrors sewn across the fabric that draped her clavicle. New tech developed to obscure faces with any recording device. She walked in six inch heels to increase her short frame, bringing her from just five feet for five foot six. Shortness was a perceived weakness and she would have none of that. Inside the heel a hidden distress button to unleash the various security she had stationed amongst the venue. Those who would help bend the world to her will, but none loyal. So even she kept her own disarming device in the shape of a french pin in her hair, just in case.
The Inferno smelt of despair and greed the moment she walked inside. Her lips were gathered in a perpetual smirk as she looked around the gathering of people. Average folk amongst the rich, for there only lay one door to enter the underworld. She held the digital wallet in her hands while she approached the black jack table, waving it over the kiosk and watching one hundred credits deducted. Her eyes fluttered as she watched the dealer throw out cards.
With eyes locked on the person beside her. Her intimidating blue eyes looking upon them menacingly, hungrily. Her lips part with the wetting of her tongue, “Hit me.” She sits at sixteen.
there is enough treachery, hatred violence absurdity in the average
human being to supply any given army on any given day
and the best at murder are those who preach against it
and the best at hate are those who preach love
and the best at war finally are those who preach peace
Once you have the taste of sugar, can you settle for the taste of only salt? What is hunger but an insatiable need. What if you only hunger for things outside of tangible needs? Who needs sustenance from the fruit of the earth if the taste of an orange can be metabolized and free from your body in hours. Edith hungered for things most would never touch and she would give blood and teeth to have them.
She was always a hungry girl--no, greedy. She feverishly bit her mother’s nipples as a babe until her milk ran dry. She never let a younger sibling win a race or a bet. More than anything, she hungered for the love of her father. A father who saw the hunger and righteousness in his daughter’s eyes and wished to trample it like a bug under his foot. But hunger was a cockroach safe even against the blows from the celestial gate. While her father planned his ways of growing his wealth, Edith planned for the day she would make him small. The day she could crush him under her pretty little fingers. She was relentless in her pursuit, the top of her studies and straight into the academy -- not under the wing of the corporate path her father had planned for her and her sibling. The assault of words came, little girl, idiot, foolish. Her father lacked one thing, foresight. That’s why he never quite made it to megacorporation status and was sucked under a forced acquisition and hostile takeover by Gestalt. Edith would be different.
The story of her rise to power is long and full of betrayal. She will sell a friend and her morals as quick as a match bends if it meant she could control the world in her palm. Her charisma was unmatched, the ability to buy your trust without opening her credit book. Then the betrayal, the compromising photos of a political rival, planted evidence, limbs of your loved one left at your door. And her, sat upon her desk moving strings like a puppeteer as she watched those around her scramble for revenge they would never taste. The list of those she wronged was long, but the list of those who feared wronging her was longer.
With power came her vices. Who can stop you when you are on the top? Who will tell the King no as he takes what he wants. Gambling, red eye, hookers, younger men, and she loved nothing more than an 8 am swig from her flask. No matter what she did, or the power she had, nothing quelled her hunger. Until she met him. Young and stupid, he radiated to her like a puppy does its mother. He was a nobody. A porter at Elysium when she overstayed until the lights went on. She couldn’t pinpoint when it happened. When she watched his chest rise and fall in his sleep. When she ran a hand through his curly locs. He divulged his secrets and life to her, and she could only ever give him half of her. Still the thought of the day without him ached deep in her soul. But then the hunger came knocking once more, she could not ignore the call.
How far would you go for power? There was no end to her rope. When the God Hand came to her in pact, she knew her final leap. A soul for a soul. He was hers to spare and unknown to him, she had offered him for her thirty pieces of silver. Judas was reincarnated into her soul but she would not die from her grief. She had sacrificed her only weakness, and now, there was nothing stopping her. Though, she saw his face often around the bend, before she only ever saw his memory in her dreams. The fear in his eyes as he asked, why? But dreams are only as powerful as sobriety, so she drank until she only saw darkness behind her eyes.
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