Hello everyone! We’ve been having some issues with this blog (posts suddenly not showing in the tags, etc) but today we discovered we can’t actually IM anyone who doesn’t IM us first, so, we’ve gone ahead and moved the main over to a new one that doesn’t appear to be glitching! So, please go ahead and follow our new main HERE ! We reblogged all the old asks so that people can still find that information, and we’ve reposted all of the biographies for you guys! Guess it’s not opening without a bump or two in the road, right? Thanks for your cooperation!
Please note that due to reblogging/re-posting a bunch of stuff, your fellow members’ intro posts got buried -- please be sure to check their intros out on their blog or by scrolling past everything on the new main ^^;
Welcome to Elysium, everyone! We really hope you’re all gonna have a lot of fun here with us, since we are now officially open! Please feel free to get to plotting and writing at your leisure, and after things have gotten underway a bit you can expect events to start happening. Maybe around the last week of January? We’ll see!
In honor of opening we’ll also be allowing members accepted today to pick up their first character after one week of activity rather than two, meaning you’ll be able to reserve them this coming Sunday, KST! Just make sure you can handle the activity requirements if you choose to pick a second up! Plus, for this week we’ll be doing rolling acceptances of applications!
Additionally, we added a new rule regarding our out of character Discord server, which can be found on the rules page, and you’ve all received a message with more information regarding that, presuming your messages were open when we were sending them. If not you can always contact us for a link! We’re super excited to share this world with you and we’ve been so amazed by the muses you all have brought in. I can’t wait to see how all of this develops!
:// AGE — 26
:// OCCUPATION — bounder at afterlife
:// CLASS — elysium
>> LOADING DEVELOPMENT …
:// MODIFICATIONS —
bone lacing: with the help of augmented cellular structure of her bones, raon is able to withstand more force than a regular human. her bones are stronger, less likely to break under pressure, which comes in handy especially in her line of business. the augmented bones also make her more physically stronger, adding five extra kilos to her weight. she currently has plastic bone lacing and while it is the cheapest, that doesn’t make it any less effective.
>> LOADING BIOGRAPHY …
some are born under lucky stars and some climb their way up to the glimmering heavens with the help of sly tricks and smiles, but shin raon was doomed from the very start. prior to her birth, her mother had lead a reckless and tasteless life, a low born singer turned escort, life for the fallen star had only been one long and painful descent. men adored her, men sang songs of her charm and yet no amounts of beauty could save her mother from her own foolishness and ignorance.
she actually believed in the possibility of a happy ending. that’s what killed her in the end. hope and trust. trust in men who only wanted to use her for a night. and then came along a prominent olympian who had promised her heavens and blessings, a way out of the eternal darkness. that is, until she fell pregnant and lost her job and the few friends that she had, and soon enough even the prince on the mechanical horse vanished into thin but toxic air of neo seoul.
and then came raon - a constant reminder that life could never get better. never again. so the little girl was shunned and ignored, left aside to fend for herself while her mother spent her days with cruel men and violet bruises on her cheeks, drowning in her own misery and alcohol. but raon could never hate her mother. not in the way that she wanted to hate her at least. she loathed her, but she loathed her father even more - a man whose name she never got to learn. that’s when she learned what hatred was. and that it would greet her each and every day.
she lived for nine years with her mother until the day she came back from school to find their shit hole of an apartment empty. at first she thought nothing of it, hoping that her mother had simply wandered off, but two days later she heard the news of her death. found in a ditch, abandoned and alone, the police didn’t even bother to investigate. another whore got what she deserved. there was no point in helping the vermin of the city.
still too young to properly run away and live all alone, she found herself in the claws of her awful aunt, a shrew with four insufferable brats by her side. she loathed them too. the youngest and scrawniest, raon didn’t have much working in her favor, especially not with her assertive attitude. if only she could forget all the dinners that she had to miss due to lack of food or money or her own bad behavior, but she never speaks of it. she was always the least important one. some memories simply cut deep, no matter how old the wound is. then at the age of fourteen, she found herself on the dirty streets of neo seoul with bloody knuckles at her side. kicked out for breaking her cousin’s nose. the bitch got what she deserved if you ask raon.
but the streets were much crueler than she had anticipated. days would go buy without her eating a single thing, days and nights, and sometimes, she would even pray for a quick death, anything to keep her from selling herself to the night. she didn’t want to end up like her foolish mother. yet at times, she too had strange dreams, wishes, hopes for a better tomorrow. she could’ve been a glorious person. she loved many things, learning among others, and she could’ve had a life of her own if only her father had stayed. if only her mother hadn’t been a whore. so many ifs. each more cruel than the last. she had wanted to be happy. but she was denied of love and affection, every form of kindness and appreciation.
stealing was her first stepping stone. but she wasn’t the usual thief. she was cruel, sometimes violent, greedy and merciless, willingly to do just about anything in order to obtain her desired item. break a leg, shatter some teeth, bite off a few ears, raon and rage became close acquaintances, lovers and friends and it didn’t long for others to start noticing her potential. she wasn’t the biggest nor the strongest, but it was the scorching fury at the pit of her stomach that made her so desirable, worthy of hiring.
this is how the abused become the abusers. they never get to learn something better. but instead of going down the path of crime, raon did her best to pull herself on the right track. she tried seeking a higher education, tried fighting for her future and yet all the doors remained sealed for her. there was no way out. not then, not ever. she would always roam in the darkness, destined to spend her life in a neon hell. heartbroken and miserable but at the same time furious and determined, life for raon was a puzzle that she could not put together. all the pieces in her hands simply didn’t fit.
she was only nineteen when she first started experimenting with drugs. it just happened one night. her mother was an addict too, she was bound to follow in her steps. so despite her best wishes raon couldn’t stay away. they made her happy, well not truly happy, she knows nothing of happiness, but calm and focused, tamer than usual. under the influence, everything was always golden, beautiful and she knew nothing of pain. the gaping pit inside of chest simply wouldn’t feel so big. she had always been her mother’s little girl, it just took time for it to swim to the surface.
and then her life reached a point of stagnation. nothing mattered anymore. life was just a dead sea. no ups, no downs. everything turned so dull over night. raon could not take it. she wanted more, more jobs, more drugs, and then life listened and handed her an opportunity - a place at afterlife. finally she could use her strength and anger to move forward and not have them drag her down.
but raon’s heart, or what it’s left of it, is fickle, hard to please and tame, and despite her respect for hades, she now once again finds herself wishing for more. more pleasure, more fun, even pain, anything that would make her feel alive. she doesn’t know what she wants, doesn’t know where she should go, so she goes everywhere and does everything that she can. the drugs keep her at peace, but for how long? it’s only a matter of time before they kill her, she’s sure of it. if only she could use her rage for something good. if only they could let her fight in the gladiator rings too. but they don’t let addicts fight, now do they?
yet the saddest thing of all is that she still harbors so much potential deep inside. if only she could sober up. if only she could find someone to guide her toward a better life. if only she had someone to call home. ifs - all the unfinished stories. and what did she dream of becoming as a little girl? she doesn’t remember anymore. is there even a point in dreaming of things that could never come true? perhaps if she sits down for long enough, perhaps she could remember. a knight or a king? maybe a gladiator in the ring? or even on a scientist on the field? but does anyone care now? because life certainly doesn’t.
there are three versions of shin raon.
the girl that she wants to be.
the girl that she is.
and that girl that she thinks she is.
the last one brings her nothing but misery, but the first two are already dying. so for now keep the beast on a leash and you have nothing to fear.
:// AGE — 28
:// OCCUPATION — owner of ambrosia casino
:// CLASS — elysium native
>> LOADING DEVELOPMENT …
:// MODIFICATIONS —
techhair - artificial hair that is embedded into the scalp and contains a display layer that can emit colors and patterns.
turn-on fails: fake fails that possess the same properties as techhair, the display layer allows the change of colors and patterns within seconds.
cyberlimbs (validation fingertips): chips implanted into the skin on the fingertips can detect counterfeit money upon touch.
>> LOADING BIOGRAPHY …
kang saerom had the great fortune of being born into a family that had abandoned any glimpse of hope. they had stopped living under the assumption they could evoke change in the charred grime of elysium long ago. truth was that everything surrounding us has been built by despicable people for despicable people; only burning it down to the ground and vowing on the remaining ashes of the past to never let the darkness of our hearts take over again could lead the world onto another path. alas, it had to be different.
as he liked to lament so much in his stories of older times, her father, a weathered politician, had seen it all. kang saejun had witnessed how those with ill intentions had molded the city into their perverse playground with no limits. how those with the means simply took what they wanted, rightfully theirs or not. life in itself is the quietus for every scintilla of hope, for every thought that maybe, just maybe, it could be different. elysium had made sure to terminate any idea for a better future and the deal was sealed when he married the heiress of the ambrosia casino.
choi mina played her part in the casino’s blinding farce perfectly. black market mink coats, self-sown sequin dresses and fake louboutins adorned her when she made her laps through the casino, a child born from foul soil pretending to be a dazzling star. convinced that the olympian’s superiority can trickle down one day, she gave ambrosia the necessary touch it had been craving for so long. naked bulbs replaced with chandeliers, blood stains covered by red carpet and blackjack tables instead of rundown slot machines. wicked mouths spoke of vicious assumptions where the sudden capital came from, truth was that saejun and mina cared little about each other’s promiscuity. if the ritual of their bodies could buy them a deal beyond pleasure, so be it.
the tireless devotion mina displayed evolved ambrosia into what it is today. one of the few seldom places where olympians and elysium natives cross, the fine line on which they balance, careful not to step into the other’s world. a bridge between what could be and what really is.
saerom emerged from exactly that pass, that paradox of the two worlds. her birth was a welcome one and yet it wasn’t, as all parents feel the hot drop of guilt run down their spine when they bring yet another life into this godforsaken world. her mother sang her lullabies of olympus, of clear blue skies and a life with no concerns, a life with overflow of everything. saerom listened with ardor about the stories that allegedly unfolded behind the doors of the casino. a place where olympians and elysians coexisted, even just for a few hours, beneath crystal lights and with heartfelt laughter. her mother instilled the thought within her that one day they too would emerge from the dust of elysium, and saerom awoke every day with the thought that it might be the one. a place in olympus was already reserved. but when she was old enough to step into the myth-enshrouded hall, she was met with disappointment.
the image she had painted in her head did not match with reality. what her mother had sold as coexistence was a laughable claim. olympians and elysium natives still prevailed in separate parts of the building, one reserved for the elite and one for who would like to imagine they belonged to it as well. there was no fine line, there was a border. as the owner her mother naturally had access to both parts, slowly feeding her with the thought she belonged to those that descended from the blinding skyscrapers. honey-coated promises of her own ascend made her turn a blind eye to the indebted elite, only to never see those promises fulfilled.
saerom was repulsed. and even more so when her mother pronounced her as her successor, a servant of those she deemed so honorable and dignified. the first specks of doubt had already settled down comfortably in the darkest corners of saerom’s mind when she starts to learn the ins and outs of the casino. she had been trying to dream of something more, something beyond this, but how could it be any different? she negotiates with her quiet, she wanders, she bleeds, but no matter where saerom goes, she is confined by the polluted horizon, fully aware that was lays beyond it is out of her reach. she feels miniscule but funnily enough, saerom always seeks to be present. like, really present. feeling every chill, bloody morning running through her spine and the soreness of her eyes as the neon lights burn themselves mercilessly into her retina.
only when her mother stepped into a more passive position and saerom emerged as the operator, she realized the unique potential the establishment holds. she noticed the same glint in everyone’s eyes, whether they came with their pockets loaded and ready to be emptied or if they put their last savings on the table. the highest of the elite and the lowest of the society were attracted by the same blinking slot machines, addicted by the same flick of the cards during a round of poker. truth was that rich and poor used the casino’s grandeur to take their mind off the troubles that await once they step outside. unlike her mother she did not view the similarities between the two worlds as a strength, but as an exploitable weakness. she began holding debts like a damocles sword over those who she knew could afford it, the debt purging policy of her mother abolished once and for all. she goes the extra mile, the one her mother had not dared to walk in order to stay neat and tidy for her alleged olympian rise. books are cooked, bets arranged under the table. she has little respect for life and even less for death, a dangerous combination that feeds her with reckless devotion.
it was at that time that she realized that the halls of money had fold speaking in idioms and empty platitudes. at times she feels far away, as if she could go on and plagiarize identities for a while and no one would notice - it is an off pretending and profoundly unsettling. but at its core is a yearning to bring this chapter of history to an end. she is a hungry woman. heart like a cigarette that won’t stay lit. sometimes she think believing in some kind of manufactured god would be better because it would give some meaning to the soulless networking between blackjack tables. the bitter truth is that she is simply someone searching for savagery. a phrase, a light, a fire. the signs along the way, even if it turned her more into a sinner than a saint.
:// AGE — 24
:// OCCUPATION — grad student
:// CLASS — olympian
>> LOADING DEVELOPMENT …
:// MODIFICATIONS —
gastric restriction augmentation. the upgraded form of gastric bypass surgery, it’s a procedure that allows whatever she consumes to circumvent most of her stomach. basically, she gets full faster to keep her measly weight
>> LOADING BIOGRAPHY …
tw: suicide
There are no stories about girls like her. Girls like her disappear before they become something to be remembered, just as they’re supposed to. Instead, they become good girls — the ones that smile without their teeth and graduate with communications degrees and turn a blind eye when their husbands fuck other women in the bed they haven’t shared in months.
The ones that don’t become good girls? They become skeletons in the closet.
Girls like her don’t exist.
(But wouldn’t you like to know what they’re like?)
.
The way of the world is simple enough: she is due everything. It’s not a matter of effort. It’s a matter of course.
Fed to the brim with all but real affection, she’s quick to spoil. The most perfectly engineered little apple from the garden of the gods, its insides black and rotten. Richness becomes a flavor that’s ordinary; something merely expected with every bite she takes from the thing unlucky enough to fall into her hands (objects, people; they taste the same on her tongue after a while). She is owed all, owes nothing in return. This is the absolute truth.
Perfection is easily attained. She has a penchant for learning, for taking things and breaking them down and eating them whole — and in the cases that it can’t be attained by strength of force, it’s bought. Case in point: the bump on her nose, cut away as soon as she’s of age to go under the knife (because nothing says unloveable more than a crooked nose). Her mother thought her eyes were a little too dark for a girl of her calibre’s to be — thought they held too many secrets, that they couldn’t be seen through. She’d begged her daughter to go to the doctor’s to get them brightened, and was distraught when she had come back with them as dark as ever.
Just don’t stare too much at a person, Mila, she’d said in resignation. Sometimes it feels like when you look at people with your eyes like that, you look like you’re ready to eat them alive.
In her household, she is the afterthought. Father is absent, mother is a haze, and her older brother is the heir to the telecommunications conglomerate throne. Her? A princess in a tall tower with the world at her fingertips.
Owed all, owes nothing, but can’t ever own the world. She’s not even in contention — she’s not even in the room. This is a system where the men take all and she has to settle for a facsimile.
What’s the point of having the world at her hands when all she really wants is to have it crushed under her foot?
.
She’s entitled to this much: blind eyes, willful ignorance, and a rope with some slack.
She takes them all and runs.
On the surface, the water remains calm. Good grades, skirts hemmed three inches above the knee, a demeanour that reflects her family’s high status.
Underneath, the current is tumultuous. Come middle school, she’s bored of parties. Her mother’s pills? Stolen, tried out, sold to the highest bidder. She finds the dark side of Olympus too bright for her liking; stale shades of grey. Wonders why it’s such a pale imitation of the real blackness that lies beneath.
There is always that feeling — of wanting more.
Elysium is different. It’s real. Has a heartbeat, blood that runs through the street. It’s ugly and dysfunctional and lawless. It’s exhilarating. It’s easy to take on a different life here. It does not matter what your name is, just what you can offer. It’s not equal — it’s not even fair — but there is a place for her at the table, and she will do anything to grab it. This is the first time something has fought against her. And like all things, she will tear it apart.
Afterlife — a fitting name for the home she makes for herself in the underbelly of the world. No longer a princess trapped in the light of day, but something like a queen.
She smiles with all teeth. Let the fun begin.
.
“You scare me sometimes.”
How?
“I don’t know — the way you look at me. Like you see me. See through me. Don’t you know what it feels like to have someone look at you and feel like they know all your secrets?”
.
At 25, her best friend from middle school jumps off of a bridge.
They find her body barely held together by the sinews. Barely a mention of it in the news — funny, since her husband helps run it— and her funeral is attended to by herself, her friend’s mother, and visited by almost no one else.
A part of her wonders why she did it (she knows). Another part wonders what it must have felt like as she was falling.
It must have been thrilling, she thinks.
The older she gets, the more the noose tightens. Titles come with duties — no exceptions there. Hosting society parties. Meeting with eligible bachelors. A fucking communications degree, for fuck’s sake. Hates the feel of something cutting into her neck. Slowly, but deeply, and surely.
Death by submission is not an option. Where’s the fun in that?
.
When she dies, they’ll probably call her crazy.
When she dies, at least she’ll know she tried to live.
:// AGE — 26
:// OCCUPATION — gladiator
:// CLASS — elysium native
>> LOADING DEVELOPMENT …
:// MODIFICATIONS —
pain editor: this is designed as a bundle of specialized nerve tissue to filter stimuli, which is a learned reflex, used to inhibit the feeling of pain when in use. however, after a rough fight, the mechanics of this device were fried and damaged some of his other augmentations while putting sungki in agonizing, chronic pain. while it’s now been turned off, due to the lack of money to properly remove the entire device, he continues to suffer from tremendous pain requiring him to be constantly medicated on a tailored narcotic supplied by apollo and hebe.
retinal advancement: updated twice. the first set of enhancements is to see long distance and detail, the second allows him to see through most solid structures (so long as their width does not exceed half a foot) to detect silhouettes and shapes of things behind them.
muscle memory: this was originally added in order to enhance his training and performance in fights. however, it quickly backfired and his memories consist of vivid recollections instead, especially the brutality of the fights he participates in. the faultiness of this augmentation is what makes him one of hermes regular clients until he can get it removed.
better hearing: updated twice. the modifications allowed him to hear at greater distances and to detect certain frequencies and sounds such as heart palpitations. the latter works like echolocation in that it allows him to detect exactly where the user is and their positioning, should they be out of sight. this second augmentation was damaged when the pain editors got fried after a fight.
laced rib cage: bone-lacing is the augmentation of a normal bone’s cellular structure through reinforced metals such as aluminum to increase its tensile strength. it makes his rib cage harder to break therefore decreasing his chances for a serious injury, though those may still occur.
hydraulic legs: this lengthy procedure was slowly completed over a six month period through three main updates. the first was a replacement of his knees and then bone lacing of multiple bones in his legs with titanium technology. in addition to those, several tendons and muscles had to be replaced with synthetic material in order to be compatible with the modification. the purpose of these technologies was to make him unnaturally fast, resilient to injuries, and allow him to jump exceptionally high and across great lengths, if need be. this skeletal reconstruction handles great pressures and has tremendous strength. not only was this his most expensive augmentation but due to its invasive and extensive nature, it required him to take a three-month hiatus from the gladiator ring post-op in order to learn how to use his new legs to their full capacity.
trauma damper: he was coerced into getting this by ambrosia casino to prevent immediate death or trauma in the instance that a fight went horribly long, especially considering the nature of his career. it is designed as a cluster of specialized receptors in the brain that activate and supply concentrated endorphins to produce opiates and painkillers when the body is near death, or extremely fatigued. in the event that sungki experienced physical trauma, it kept him alive and conscious enough to receive medical attention. this was later damaged when his pain editor backfired.
reflexive wiring: a reflexive enhancement that works as implanted neural boosters or adrenaline producers in order to provide quick reactions to threats such as incoming objects.
robotic shoulders: made out of titanium metal, his shoulders have been replaced to be flexible enough that he can reach behind himself. they withstand great injuries and pressures, but require frequent adjustments to keep them in optimal shape.
synthetic tendons in arms: in order to enhance the efficiency of his former augmentation, his tendons were replaced with synthetic material to make them stronger, and resilient to damage in fights.
robotic hands: his metal implants were exchanged for a robotic skeleton in his hands to replace bones and some tissue. the titanium metal isn’t easily damaged and gives him the capacity to grip and crush things with ease.
subdermal metal knuckles: these were metal implants under the skin of his knuckles to enhance his punches and assist him in fights. he received these at age sixteen.
>> LOADING BIOGRAPHY …
1.
he finds his place in blood.
it’s a violating taste in his mouth, an unsavory sort of aggression that doesn’t suit his lanky stature. still, he reigns it — lets the blood dribble to his chin and stamp onto his palms. he’s emancipated himself from the world, and in parts, from himself at this moment.
in elysium people are shepherded into distinct groves of personalities, and sungki finds himself among the desperate and greedy in the underbelly of its criminal streets with jaws clenched and fingers curled into fists.
two boys twist on the ground, nails digging into flesh, yelping like dogs as they grapple among dirt with their fingers rupturing from their fists to find substance in something. they find hair, they find eyes, they draw out screams and grunts of frustration, yet they never yearn to surrender. in this setting they’ve found freedom in unsanctioned rage and bloody street fights, and in this night it’s the making of men and cutthroat gladiators.
home in elysium isn’t a steady constant, it’s whatever they can find, and sungki is adopted into a garage full of boys at 14; the sanctity of his new home unparalleled in blood and glory.
2.
he’s a mangled mess of bones and wires — of electrical creations thrumming beneath a vest of muscle, acting in the place of organs and tissue; resenting the life of blood and matter and their quick deterioration. he lays there as a shivering canvas, naked to his skin — to the human flesh and flaws concealing the array of devices from which he is remade. his ligaments aren’t held together by nature and its virtue, but the profane technologies of artificial conception. this is him: dignity-less. more manmade than man that he lacks the comprehension to feel some semblance of shame. he feels so entitled to power that he doesn’t understand resignation.
in his delirium, he finds the peeping reflection of his naked body not entirely real.
they found him like this, sweating, lips sealed tightly as his body shuddered, waves of pain rushing down his spine and prickling his toes. he couldn’t tell what was real — the various gears skewed into his body had failed him epically as he found himself on his knees, and then the floor of ambrosia’s ring. sungki doesn’t comprehend this pain as he’s been taught. it’s distinct, and blinding, and wholly unnatural, and yet its persistence and his own haggard breaths give him something to look forward to.
a cold feeling spills across his crown as he’s finally put out of his misery. in the blankness he sees mechanics, the grinding presence of disrupted gears faltering and stopping. he realizes he’s looking at himself; rusted and breaking apart, yet alive. death isn’t allowed to boys like him.
it takes a mammoth of strength to deter him from this place of weakness. those memories chase him afterward when the pain of his failing augmentations are medicated with drugs. he’s been doing this cycle for years, and between the gladiator ring and his spot on an operating table, he’s the classic tale of downfall that’s never portrayed in public heroism yet thrives in the scenes shortly after where the cheers dissipate.
3.
i. the first take is like this: a street littered of garbage, voices in the distance, and a boy curled along a ledge. he’s thirteen, and he only knows hunger and fury.
there is no purchase in routine.
his mind is a vessel of desperation, he finds. cluttered thoughts paired with aching desires to flourish into something rewarding, something beyond humanity, beyond divinity. he won’t exist like this: a starving street rat. sungki sees himself in a godly vision, and it’s not that he’s narcissistic, but there’s an absolution in strength to strive for — to reach and greedily obtain entirely for himself; forgiveness for being born in this frenzy.
ii. the second take is like this: the essence of humanity exists in unsanctioned glory. the way in which he — like other mortals — burns hard and fast in a lonely moment of time. their existences are measured as a short spark across greater life, and yet he is somewhat humanless to it. the realization passes him by — that he’s a part of it too.
as his head rolls towards a red fan against the edge of the venetian couch, his robe parts and clings to his sweaty skin. a baggy of pills rest nearby and his cheeks flush, full of life. peace, as of late, needs to be bought.
sungki lays there in the stillness, the world hovering in a beat that stretches like the distant pulse of his heart. it’s gotten quieter now, faint, and his reality is flooded, colors and sounds all underwater. this new narcotic is tailored just for him, numbing his world until feeling slows to a crawl; intensity withered away until life thrums dully.
there is no purchase in routine: he can’t keep doing this either.
his fingers curl loosely in the absence, and he knows if he were to bite into his flesh hard enough that he’d still bleed. in the end, he remains running red, all too real.
:// AGE — 27
:// OCCUPATION — biotech engineer
:// CLASS — elysium
>> LOADING DEVELOPMENT …
:// MAGIC —
The forefathers of science began with his grandfather, now deceased, however built himself a career as a political scientist to his home country. Two generations concerned with the studies of evolution, carried similar legacies onto the research Eita would eventually conduct himself. Originally, his pivotal focus was on matters of evolution and adaptation, which ended with abandoning both subjects to study cases of technological magic. As a former resident of Olympus, education was readily available, it’d be up to Eita to further his branch of knowledge by means of learning from credentialed professionals and scholars. Thus, he retained much of what he had known about evolution and adaptation. Both of which simultaneously influences his work, theories and the repute he has already made for himself as an experimental engineer in Elysium. If he hadn’t been exiled from Olympus, who knows how far and wide his innovations would take him; but that would raise the question if his measures of biohacking would prove itself pioneer worthy. Bridging the two ends of the scientific spectrum together, breaks the many laws known in the world of human biology. Some discoveries earned him successes, others as failures, yet he cannot stop short at the manipulation of one’s physiology.
:// MODIFICATIONS —
BIT (or brain interface technology), it is a chip that is implanted in the cerebrum. The cerebrum is the larger, exterior part of the brain responsible for manifesting strategic muscle movements such as lifting an object, walking, etc. It also plays its part in controlling the ways of how one reads, thinks, learns, speaks, and determine their emotions. The chip allows the user to multitask at heightened level, with technology embedded to intensify cognitive tasks.
Respiratory System Adaptation. Due to the rising pollution levels nestled on the edges of Elysium, provided by the factories home to the City Center, this modification is a genetic mutation injected into the bloodstream. Similarly like how most vaccines work by providing the actual ailment except in small doses, this is just the same to prolong the respiratory system and its endurance to harmful gasses, poor air quality, and exposure to asbestos.
>> LOADING BIOGRAPHY …
According to the Statistics Bureau of Japan, there are approximately seven thousand people who walk the Earth ridden in its trauma, by the surname “Kimata”. The tree in its entirety, “the whole tree, complete, full,” its meaning doesn’t impress. Now, whether or not the data’s been untouched in the past century isn’t up for debate. Papers lined up neatly in corresponding folders to sit in metal storage units, buried in the depths of the Pacific Ocean. The mass-production of machinery containing analytics at the ends of the world, left in ruins, obsolete. The things that once cultivated order and structure to maintain a civilization, swallowed by angry typhoons.
The placeholders of this family name had resources when the land was all at odds against each other. Survival is a gritty fight for life, the coordinates poorly marked on the map. The struggle for existence, there is not a soul on the margins of Neo Seoul more faithful than the powerless.
The elite will always find ways. A minister of science and former diplomat of Japan to South Korea gathers only the finest of instruments and flees. The beginnings to Olympus kicked off to a rigid head start, a luxury not known to most.
It’s in their repertoire to make it out on the top when everybody else scavenges among themselves and settles for the “good enoughs” and live until they see another day. It’s the age of relief. Even though shrouded in deceit in all of its oppression, home is the city-state that soars into the atmosphere. It is in these self-serving boroughs that an Olympian man and woman can wishfully bring a child into comfort, promised. The year was 2142.
The reluctant protagonist. It is not in the fault that he and his siblings alike toppled over the classes living in scarcity. He reaps the benefits that Olympus has provided thus far. The one percent with filth and grime on their hands to uphold such a legacy, such status, nothing comes clean cut from the bark of wealth. Grandpa’s story overcoming the bridges, channels and inland body of dust and cloud to seize the cathedra of Olympus, told in victory for the grandchildren to be open-mouthed in awe. There is a life that people live outside of this fixed promised land, one so foul that the children’s empathy are little next to nothing.
Overprotection is fuel to fire for ignorance.
Kimata Eita keeps a blind eye open for a world in decay beyond Olympus. He sits back, engages in his biomechanical pursuits, educational and otherwise, sows the opulent welfare accessed through his father for research and never looks back as men do. The boy grows up a young man diligent to take information into his own accord. There is a universe of suffering that through certain circumstances, his compassion cannot apprehend. His inorganic innovations await to be discovered, some miles away from sublimity. Although the tireless metropolis of Elysium beneath his feet, and his arrival to, remains unimaginable. The attorney’s daughter whose limbs cannot walk or carry anymore, an experiment gone too far, out of bounds. Were they involved? Sure. Not that it matters, but it adds to the case.
Switched on the wrong modules, miscalculated the algorithm by a large sum of numbers, and she fell numb. Seconds too late, tried to peel back the wires sewn by the radius in the arm and it’s only agony he knows at the expense of his failed assessment. He is not God, he cannot play God and the creator of Frankenstein in hopes of reviving her body back into pristine condition, that level of which he fantasizes to a degree. He stands over her limp body at the edge where his laboratory and hell have been intertwined. His time is up.
He wonders if Olympus anticipates his return. Whether tomorrow, or in the next month, a new year, another decade.
The city whose name so harshly contradicts its communal way of life. The hungers of Elysium with its open arms, beckon him upon exile. Here, he is the bringer of a chancy empire that anchors bone to magnet.
:// AGE — 26
:// OCCUPATION — owner of absolution
:// CLASS — elysium native
>> LOADING DEVELOPMENT …
:// MAGIC —
gun’s magic is barely that. it’s an enhancement that sounds like an augmentation anyone could buy if they had enough money. but his is innate, an enhanced charisma he was born with and cannot turn on or off at whim. the type of unusually irresistible charm and an enticing sparkle in his eyes that money can’t, in fact, buy. not at the same level as his, anyway. no augmentation can make someone as likable and persuasive and easy to trust all while having a certain reputation that might suggest otherwise. despite what neon-lit signs might advertise, no augmentation can give someone the same ability to instinctively know just what to say or do in social situations to most likely get him what he wants or needs with little chance of backfire. it’s a helpful ability for a conman like gun, but it’s a double-edged sword that keeps him wondering who’s only there because of it.
:// MODIFICATIONS —
prior to his business, gun never had any modifications beyond basic ones (techhair and shift-tacts to change the colors of his hair and eyes at whim, and a then-buggy voice mask that changed the timbre and pitch of his voice) that benefitted his conning ways. since then, however, he’s gotten a few more valuable augmentations, and why not if most were given for free in exchange for information? giving up his moral integrity costs nothing if he never had it to begin with, anyway.
datalock: since perfecting his absolution tech, the first thing gun did was seek out someone willing to experiment and lock down his memories, denying external access to it, not wanting to fall prey to his own scheme. no one knows better than him how valuable memories can be, after all. the datalock in his brain was built specifically to protect against the inner workings of his machine, and for that he’s proven it foolproof time and time again (once every other week, just in case). should different means of accessing memories arise, however, he may or may not be defenseless and he’ll never know until it happens.
biomonitor detonator: as another precaution, gun had a biomonitor detonator installed on him and connected to his absolution database and machine. the biomonitor watches his current physiological state, and any time his life is in serious peril, it will go off unless he overrides it within ten seconds. if anyone tries to severely beat information or memories out of him without paying his asking price (or kill him), for example, his detonator will fire off and all the memories in his database will be wiped and the machine will self-destruct. the outcome isn’t ideal for him either, of course, since he’d lose all his work and leverage. but, he tends to tout this as a deterrent to anyone who might dare to think of it.
microrecorder link: his absolution machine is not his only source of valuable information, since not everyone influential uses it, of course. so even now he’ll run long cons every so often or just sweet talk and charm things out of people, and his microrecorder link will catch every second and upload it directly to his database. his very own messenger, of sorts. built into his cornea, it can be turned on and off on either audio or video or both as he pleases on a retinal display. as it just live-records and does not deal with his internal memories, his datalock does not interfere with it.
ambidex chip: gun mostly got this chip installed because it was offered in exchange for what he considered useless information and figured why not? it makes him ambidextrous, giving his sleight of hand more fluidity and ease since one side is no longer more dominant and more natural to sleight.
>> LOADING BIOGRAPHY …
gun knows the streets like the back of his hands, can guide you through it with eyes shut, ears plugged, and with muscle memory alone. he knows it in the light of day when everything’s concrete and dirty, and he knows it in the middle of the night when it’s bathed in neon haze and easier to pretend – visually, at least – like maybe elysium isn’t the dirty heel of neo seoul.
he knows it because it’s home. not just his city, his hometown, but home.
abandoned at birth by his mother who could barely afford to feed herself in the hands of his father who struggled just as much, he became a tool at an early age. paraded around the streets, made to cry (physically as an infant, and then on command as soon as he was able) and pull sympathy from uncomfortable passers. oh no you poor thing, they’d call him, before handing over small amounts of money his dad eventually spent on drugs and maybe half an expired roll of kimbap tossed his way.
this is how he first learns the city, one corner at a time until they’re shooed away or out of suckers to fool.
and next when he’s five and their landlord kicks them out of their tiny studio apartment without warning, the street literally is home.
an abandoned alleyway, an “old friend’s”, a cramped community house, a shelter, a jjimjilbang, an old run-down car of days passed that no longer works. by six he knows his way from one convenience store to another across the entire city, purposefully taking the long way around and ruffling his hair and scuffing his knees and elbows. he’s still small, still cute enough that they continue to say, oh no you poor thing, and hand him money. half of which he stashes away somewhere secret before returning to wherever home is that day and gives the rest to his withering father.
so, unsurprisingly, he grows up quickly. it’s hard not to when the following day is never ensured.
they barely get by with the money gun scrounges up and odd jobs his dad picks up when he’s sober enough, motivated enough. but by the time he’s eight, gun finds them permanent shelter with an old granny that insists he come stay with her in her son’s old room. she calls him a charming little boy instead of you poor little thing and he grins and agrees.
she continues, over the years, telling him he reminds her of her son. gun isn’t quite sure that’s a good thing, even at eight, but he just smiles and nods and humors her because having warmth and constant food that isn’t expired is nice. he’d died a few years back, but he was just as charming, just as smart, and into all the newest tech, she tells him. that, at least, piques gun’s interest. prompts him to ransack the room for books and journals and old computers and code and strange machines he takes apart just to figure out how to put them back together. prompts him to learn, to teach himself with everything her son left behind.
and without having to worry about where to sleep next or how to get food or if his sorry excuse of a dad is still even alive, he thrives in that small little room over the next few years. always restless, always needing something to do, his hands find themselves busy tinkering and typing away. putting together his own machines after he’s gotten the hang of it and his mind starts churning, starts coming up with his own ideas.
by eleven he’s built his own little fighting robot. by twelve he’s made it able to be voice controlled with a few select responses. by thirteen, he’s patched in machine learning into it, allowing it to learn and predict an opponent’s moves and act accordingly.
then, at fourteen his grandma (as he calls her now) dies.
she leaves them the house and what very little fortune she has left. he’s too young to claim the money, so his father receives it, and everyone knows how that story goes. at fifteen, gun’s sick of it and leaves in the middle of the night with his hidden stash and the cash his father foolishly left laying around. the house has lost its warmth and use anyway. it’s the last time he sees his father, and the streets become home once more.
much older now and seen as a damn teenager instead of a poor little thing, it’s harder to get people to stop for him on the streets. he finds other ways instead, like slick fingers and thick charm hallmarked by a lopsided grin. it’s when he successfully starts talking himself out of larger five-finger discounts like a pair of shift-tacts that he thinks something must be up. by the time he’s eighteen and he’s talked himself out of various sticky situations with even the purposefully stupidest reasons, he figures it has to do with his being, his charisma – and he uses it to his advantage.
like smooth talking his way into dirt-cheap apartment leases, and reading people with ease to use what he can against them, long-conning them out of their life savings, their motorbikes, their tech parts and machinery he puts to good use. and so at twenty, he’s doing quite well for someone with no real job but swindling and picking pockets.
for the first time in a while, he’s fine, he’s doing okay, he’s got a bit of saved money to spare. the city is still his home and he spends much of his time in it, but when he’s not, he’s back home. tinkering like he used to, but with better parts now. more knowledge, greater ideas.
he starts with the idea of turning vr on its head. instead of living a designed life, why not live someone else’s literal life through their eyes? he runs wild with it, tinkers and programs and spends endless nights until he comes up with the first prototype a year later. a machine that can target a specific memory area in the brain and save all of it to a chip.
he’s close and pushes further. comes up with an improved prototype another year later that can select specific memories now. it’s still a little buggy, but for the most part it works. he tries it on himself, extracts his memories from eight to fourteen, watches them and feels a pang in his chest he only ever feels when those memories come to mind. he hates it, wonders idly if there’s a way he can remove them. wonders, excitedly, that there must be a way to remove them.
the track switches quickly. forget vr, consider: absolution. deliverance from sin, from pain, from heartache, from anything you want to forget. purify yourself, save yourself.
it take a little over another year, but he finds it. the way to offer salvation.
he’s his first customer and grandma becomes a forgotten memory, burnt chip ashes tossed onto the dreary concrete floor outside his building. it’s the first and last time he uses the machine on himself, soon after finding someone to lock his brain against it. but it’s far from the last time the machine is ever used.
the absolver, he calls it, his machine. it becomes synonymous for him on the streets as well, spoken like a promise. forget everything for a small price, he offers to anyone he meets. salvation is a hot commodity in a city like elysium, and he thrives on that alone.
but he wants more. seo gun always wants more.
not just money, but leverage – and by way of information, he gives himself plenty.
a far less advertised part of his business on a need-to-know basis, a database of memories sits in a hidden room of absolution. therein lies thousands of chips claimed to be destroyed after extraction sitting perfectly pretty, already mined for any pertinent information. and for the highest bidders? he’ll sell that information away.
it’s easy now for a man like gun to thrive in elysium.
bathed in sin and on the brink of revolution, absolution and information are invaluable – and gun has a stronghold on both.
:// AGE — 28
:// OCCUPATION — unemployed
:// CLASS — fallen
>> LOADING DEVELOPMENT …
:// MODIFICATIONS —
hearing: removable hearing aid in right ear. restorative procedure for hearing in right ear after losing 70% of hearing in said ear. relatively small implant. has a tendency to forget to wear. still hard of hearing.
>> LOADING BIOGRAPHY …
tw: abuse
THE SPARK
i.
is there a god in you, girl?
ii.
her mother says she’s built mostly on faults.
she wants too much. she tires too easily, she lacks patience, she does not delight the way a girl ought to. she is too harsh. she does not smile enough. she thinks too highly of herself. she thinks too little of others, she is all desire. she is the definition of selfishness. she is all vanity. she is a curse of a girl. she is possessed by greed. she is the scourge of the earth.
“even still,” her mother always says in her sweet little voice, “you’re still my daughter. i still love you.”
iii.
love doesn’t feel like this. this much she knows.
iv.
“do you yearn?”
“why would i?”
“why wouldn’t you.”
she smiles, innocuous and innocent. “one day i’ll own the whole world, what does the woman who have everything need more of?”
“well everyone wants something, even the girl who has everything.”
v.
she wants to feel something.
the press of his lips to her neck is close enough for now.
she can’t remember his name. jiyong. jaeyul. something of the like, it doesn’t matter. he doesn’t matter.
he’s just meant to fill a void, an idiot to hold near just for a while and to throw away when she gets bored.
“fuck, you’re the prettiest girl i’ve ever met.” he whispers in her ear and she pretends she doesn’t feel disgust as his hands grip her hips and his breath tickles her neck.
“i know,” she breathes back, “now shut up.”
THE FLAME
i.
“your touch causes ruin,” he tells her one day, “that’s why you’re no good.”
ii.
her father’s palm hits her so hard her ears start to ring.
he’s saying something, spittle flying as he screams but she can’t make out any of the words. the ringing and the sound of her heart pounding make it impossible to hear anything else.
it’s nuclear fallout. the whole world crumbles beneath her feet and there’s nothing to break her fall, no one to save her from herself.
“it’s all over now!” her father’s hands are slight, thin and elegant but his grip is bruising when it digs into her shoulders. “you’ve ruined everything. you’ve ruined us all.”
the slap doesn’t sting as much the second time around.
“idiot girl,” someone mumbles. it’s the only sound she can hear over the ring.
iii.
it takes sixteen hours and twelve minutes to bring life into the world. sixteen hours and twelve minutes to feel herself at death’s brink to bring another life into the world.
her mother kisses her sweaty forehead and calls it a miracle, tells her she’s so proud even though they both know it’s a lie.
iv.
“father’s name?”
“i don’t know.”
“mother’s name?”
“kitagawa honoka.”
“child’s name?”
“they didn’t let me choose one.”
v.
it’s the pity that kills her. it’s the pity that drives her mad.
THE BURNING
i.
imagine falling off a cliff, looking down at certain death.
ii.
“do you yearn?”
her laugh sounds like her mother’s; mirthless and light, a certain coldness that lilts off her tongue.
“yeah, i yearn. i yearn a fucking lot.”
she can’t feel the tips of her fingers or the corners of her mouth, but she’s smiling and laughing the way good girls are supposed to. breeding rears it’s head at every turn, cements the fact that she’s that much better than all of this.
“i yearn for everything y’know? i’m greedy that way.”
iii.
neon gods don’t shine so brightly here.
the lights never quite reach the bottom.
iv.
perceptions of her go like so:
she is a good girl, she has good manners, she is small and feminine. she is pretty and kind. she poses no threat and means no harm. she’s an unfortunate victim of a heartless man and a vicious system.
no one bothers to recognize otherwise, and she’s fine with it.
it’s easier to be perceived than to be known.
v.
imagine being trapped in a maelstrom.
chaos pulls her in every which direction, but none of them are up. she just wants to go home, she tells herself as she tries to claw her way up, fingers covered in shit and blood.
she just wants to see it all burn with her own two eyes.
:// AGE — 23
:// OCCUPATION — fashion designer
:// CLASS — elysium native
>> LOADING DEVELOPMENT …
:// MODIFICATIONS —
holographic tattoo, collection of tiny spiders on nape of neck.
sleep regulator, can stay awake for up to 48 hours without tiring.
>> LOADING BIOGRAPHY …
she is the product of an olympian man and an elysium woman, and ever since she took her first breaths of the murky and polluted air, she’s been relentlessly duped.
mother always told her that father had his reasons for being absent—reasons to estrange himself from the beautiful home that the two lived in—and, at times, she even went as far as to claim that he was a superhero fighting crime; making sure that his two girls were safe. each fanatical reason for not having him around for guidance made her hopeful that she’d meet him someday soon, but as she got older, the rose-tinted glasses she wore began to chip and fray, and as such, she began to see the truth. life wasn’t bound to be full of soft hues, but of harsh neon lights and the obsidian reflection of a damaged highway—both of which she learned to love, and admire, over time. at eleven years old, she began to resent her mother for filling her mind with fantasies of heroes conquering villains, and of having a father capable of such herculean tasks. fairytales started to make no sense and she was a girl plagued with dread, and doubt.
ahn chaesol had been lied to over, and over, again, and she was desperate for the truth; for the chance to discover all of the secrets her mother kept hidden. so, at thirteen, she went on a hunt for answers; for information. it all started with reviewing old video diaries, then to perusing through messages sent from her mother’s email address, and though it took much longer then she thought, she encountered authenticity for the first time in the form of bank statements. funds were constantly being sent over to the woman who was raising her, and the sums were never menial, no—they were exorbitant. in all of her life, she’d never seen such a lofty amount—both figuratively, and literally—and she wondered where all of it was going. if this was any sort of child support, why had she not been knowledge of it? why had this, too, been kept a secret? for months, she was stuck thinking about it, and though she wanted to confront her mother, she had no idea how she would be able to. later on, it would be of her own findings, yet again, that more honesty was revealed.
at thirteen, she experienced heartbreak for the first time… and it wasn’t at the hands of her first love, no, but at the hands of the woman who was responsible for her existence.
with a suspicious mind, chaesol began to review the chronology of her life, and with a new set of eyes, she started to see things clearer; she started to make sense of the mystery. all of the empty pill bottles she found in the trash, the nights where she would wake for school to a vacant apartment, the fact that mother owned mountains of clothes, but she was left to the bare minimum… all of it now carried an ominous weight, and it would later be uncovered that each cent was spent on the life of a bon vivant; the life of a woman who felt she was so deserving of financial masses due to the sacrifices she made. becoming pregnant at such a young age made her feel hollow, and she filled the void with material items; with greed.
it was then when a decision was made, and it was one that altered her life forever.
with a bag of belongings packed, anger in the depths of her heart, and money stolen from her mother’s clandestine safe, she ran away from home; leaving only a note behind that went on to explain her reasoning for forming an escape plan. when it was discovered, her mother had no choice but to worry, and to be ashamed, but more than anything, she understood. if being separated meant that both of them could be happy, then she let it be so; she let her only daughter take her exit, and never thought twice about chasing after her.
shortly after she embarked on her escapade, she was saved from the darkness of elysium’s streets and brought into live with a local seamstress. for the price of labor, she would have a place to stay, and hot food to eat, and she couldn’t really say no, so she complied. it took a great many pricked fingertips and messy stitches until she improved, and the practice of the almost meditative creation of clothing was her saving grace. it kept her mind at ease, and she found an outlet that she never would’ve thought to attempt before. it was then when she became obsessed with fashion, and when she became older, instead of attending an academy for her craft, she invested in herself—purchasing her own sewing machines, her own textiles, and opening up a business of her own; one where commissions kept her fridge stocked, and she was able to afford a studio apartment of her own. for a price, she would create custom clothing for those who longed to own individualized items. she was able to sketch out people’s ideas and masterfully replicate them on mannequins, and the more she practiced, the more polished her designs became.
however, at twenty, she gained further attention by taking part in a runway show; one for up-and-coming creators to showcase their portfolios. not only did she receive acclaim for her outlandish use of colors, patterns, and various technical items, but she also found herself garnering attention from a mysterious olympian—one whose resemblance to her was a bit uncanny. when he made himself known as her father, she tried her best to ignore it, but as he was persistent, she was almost forced to lend a listening ear. he apologized for being absent, and explained that she was the outcome of an extramarital affair. he was still a married man, and his wife had no idea that chaesol existed, and he longed to keep it that way for as long as he could. however, what he did offer her was financial support. at first, pride and anger clouded her judgement, and she declined; not at all comfortable with handouts from someone she’d never known. apart of her still clung onto the belief that the man who had a hand in her creation was a superhero—a vanquisher of all evil—but she knew that that wasn’t the case, and that life wasn’t full of happy endings all of the time.
so, she decided to stop lying to herself.
she decided to kill the stories she’d been told forever and to accept the truth.
that’s what she wanted all along, anyway.
after a few weeks, she reached out to him and accepted his offer of child support, and in doing so, he ceased the link between he and her mother’s bank account. chaesol knew that that would cause an almost volcanic reaction out of the older woman, but it was time that she embraced her karma with open arms. all of these new funds only aided in her empire, and she was now able to afford more luxurious fabrics, and machinery, and she felt her world open up like it never had before. not only that, but she was able to purchase a sleep regulating augmentation—which was intensely expensive—but it allowed her to finish up projects at a quicker pace due to her overpowered alertness.
over the next three years, she saw a monumental growth in clientele, and she was even able to collaborate with various celebrities—and even some olympians—to further expose herself to personal success. she has blossomed from a once depressed and isolated girl, to a woman who practices acceptance, gratitude, and love for all that she’s been given. in her mind, all of the adversities she faced led her to where she is now, and in a sense, she is happy that she was able to learn to be stronger, and bolder, on her own terms. she’s an artist in her own right, and all artists had to suffer in order to create masterpieces.
that’s what she tells herself, at least.
however, her aching need to be more innovative, and to further break the mold, has her on a journey to outdo herself time, and time, again. despite receiving an almost endless supply of cash from an olympian, chaesol has decided to support elysium’s revolution, and in doing so, has learned to create, and manufacture, technological materials to power up suits of armor. it’s been an ongoing learning process for her, but she’s devoted herself to learning from some of the best technical magicians in elysium; learning to replicate their skills, and find loopholes within them, due to her unfortunate lack of magical powers.
apart of her feels guilty for using the earnings of a member of the one percent against them, but she can’t help but stand behind the unheard voices that ask for change. she, too, in a lot of ways, desires change for all of elysium’s citizens, so she’ll provide as many resources as she can in order to see that those changes are made.
recently, though, she’s heard that her mother has become a woman of the streets; a sad member of the red light district. all of the money she’d accumulated had been spent, and she wasn’t able to afford rent, and now, she’s desperately seeking out her daughter for help. chaesol hasn’t decided whether to keep her at arm’s length or not, and she wrestles with those thoughts, and feelings, every single day. now that she’s in a comfortable place, it would make sense for her to assist the members of her family, but she can’t escape the lies, and the heavy amounts of deception. for now, though, she works hard at honing her craft, and further building her brand.
:// AGE — 27
:// OCCUPATION — actress, singer/songwriter
:// CLASS — fallen
>> LOADING DEVELOPMENT …
:// MODIFICATIONS —
datajack: hidden beneath her hairline on the ride side of her skull, a datajack is available, installed to port in necessary scripts, scene information, and schedules at the blink of an eye. her mornings consist of a quick check in that downloads schedules and updates for the time being, keeping her up to date on her many, many obligations.
commlink: with a retinal interface, she’s essentially implanted a smart phone that cannot be lost, available at the literal blink of an eye. it provides essential updates and so on. she can be reached by her management at the blink of an eye. she suspects it may have illegal tracking software worked in but she’s not been able to confirm or deny that, and if she does she will absolutely work to get it disabled, even if that goes against contract.
hologlamour: a proprietary, cutting edge version of cosmetic augmentation that is available to a select few alone, this custom designed software allows her, like a glamour in ancient legend, to adjust her appearance in whatever superficial way her heart desires. it cannot change her visage to that of another person, but it can adjust faces of her appearance. from something as simple as changing her blush from coral to peach or her eyeliner from sleek to smoky, she can also give herself freckles, beauty marks, different eye colors, different hair colors (but not lengths), and various other adjustments.
dietware: when your job is to be everyone’s wet dream, girl next door, first love and girl crush, it’s impossible to let your image slip for even a moment. if she isn’t, at all times, as good as the fictional, airbrushed, idealized virtual version of herself that so many consume on a daily basis, then what’s the point? as a result, dietware keeps her in shape, an expensive and painful procedure that has effectively dulled her enjoyment of food down to zero as a side effect.
* due to contractual obligation, all modifications and augmentations may only be performed at order of her employers, and she is strictly prohibited from entertaining any other adjustments while contracted with blacklight media.
>> LOADING BIOGRAPHY …
she’s born blessed.
that’s what they all say. that’s how it looks. blessed and beloved, third daughter and fifth child to a prominent family, a wealthy family, a prestigious family, wrapped up in the puppet government that exists to prop up the mega corporations, to line their pockets with blood money, smoke money, the wages of the damned and dying.
she’s such a beautiful child.
that’s what they say. so bright and pure, with such a sweetness of demeanor. she’s insightful and clever. she speaks when spoken to and her words seemed planned. more articulate still than one would anticipate of a child. her hair falls in tidy waves down her back and she dutifully clambers along after her siblings, much older than she, and wiser.
she’d been a surprise, you know.
a baby born when they’d thought such a thing no longer possible, when they’d gotten too old to play and cavort with the child, too distracted by the careers they’d turned to focus on, by the glimmering lights of society. too far removed from what it had been to be parents of such a young child. so she grows up imaginative, finds ways to entertain herself, an indomitable brightness that demands attention, acts out in mischief for scraps of love.
she’s hungry.
she’s ravenous, chases after love with the desperation of a child, with the innocence of a child. sure that if she is just a little bit smarter, a little bit sweeter, a little bit more, more, more she can become something worthy of the affection they hold just a hair’s breadth away, like the carrot dangling before her to keep her on a treadmill. always reaching, grasping, greedy.
she’s greedy.
that’s what they begin to say, when she is in secondary school and hologloss shines on her lips, when glitter decorates her skin like a smattering of stars. when hemlines creep higher and she learns there are easy, foolproof ways for her to find adoration, to find herself wanted.
this is what she wants.
to be wanted. to be loved. to be adored. but her hunger outmatches what’s provided, and she develops a destructive boredom with the insipid surroundings of olympus. like the lightening that dances inside a storm cloud she seethes impatient and erratic. for a time she pursues music, blasting it out over the comms on forums for hopefuls, and her siren song brings minor acclaim, attention. anonymous adoration and in turn hatred, and stamping out that blight becomes consuming.
she’s too young when it happens.
when they find her, reach out to her. blacklight media extends the offer of a contract, meets with her parents, puts aside their halfhearted fears and uncertainties. of course they won’t really let her pursue music, seriously, they tell her parents. there’s no propriety in that, no power in it, no gloss and glamour. no, she’ll act, they say. she’ll be wonderful, star of the screen, on every commlink and feed out across the strata.
what is the price of love?
this is what she wonders. things start small and careful. a dating simulation game, very PG-13, only the promise of a more that lingers underneath. there’s a handful of advertisements and then more, and more, until she sees her face from every flickering sign board, holograms of herself half a building tall, her flaws and faults magnified to excruciating detail, set up for public consumption, and she begins to worry herself sick.
day by day she loses a little bit more.
day by day they take it further and further, breaking apart who she is, tacking her down like a butterfly to a pinboard to preserve her. to display her. and when she has finished satisfying the placid and restrained appetites of olympus, when she has graced their screens with demure and pleasant charm, when she has fluttered from genre to genre in recreation of each whim and fancy and fantasy, they begin to set their sites on broader markets.
elysium is hungry.
it’s a gaping and cavernous maw, teeth neon bright and ready to rend her to bits. they pull the flesh from her bones and strip her raw. she will be beloved, they tell her, whisper it like a threat. be loved, or else. failure isn’t built into her contract, and the appetites of elysium are endless and dark. they are many and varied, and slowly rua - now rune- finds herself shackled to exhausting expectations. forced to be and become things she could not have imagined, would not have desired.
elysium is insatiable.
and oh, they love her. this fallen creature, this angelic being brought down to her knees before them, for them. they devour, desire. she is the wicked and impossible culmination of a hundred thousand conflicting desires, she’s the chance for something, someone, better. she’s the promise of something just as bad as they are. she is everything, anything they desire of her - she has to be. they help her to make sure she can be, put her under the blade and drill to modify her, fortify her. anything to give her a little more edge, anything to make her a little more efficient. one step away from robotic, one clamoring heart from ai.
elysium is a promise.
for all it’s darkness, for all the rot that grows inside her chest, twisting through her sickened veins, there is a hope. a dream that beats fervent in her chest. a promise of something else, something different, something true. they let her pursue it, in her free time. a purple microphone in her palm and a sea before her, an ocean of promises and desires, a roiling mass of those who would follow her to the edge and back again. a hive mind, a furious horde, just as adoring as they are vengeful, just as demanding as they are loving.
elysium is a prison.
she is it’s prisoner, trapped in the cages of expectation and adoration, pinned down beneath the nails of desire and love. misguided, mangled affections are to be her undoing. at yet she remains hungry. remains greedy. never sated with the love that she earns in the virtual world, she masks herself behind technology, peppers her true face over as easily as she walls away what’s left of the girl she’d been before all this. before she became the woman of a thousand faces, each one specifically tailored to her audience and each one a little more removed from her own. she’s resentment and hunger, fire and fury, and there is so little left of forgiveness or desire left in her. she is a survivor to her core, some desperate creature grasping at the fragments of her dreams. there’s hardly any sincerity left in her, a caged bird singing against impossible odds.
:// AGE — 27
:// OCCUPATION — drug chemist
:// CLASS —native
>> LOADING DEVELOPMENT …
:// MAGIC —
jinsol’s magical is learned, and at the same time, seemingly twined into him. muscles and memory and nerves. it feels like it. something taught to him and adopted since he was old enough to let it manifest in his mind. it’s a second nature, nearly. infusing magic with medicine. or in his case, pseudo-medicine (he calls it medicine, at least). it’s something slipped in between measurement and chemicals and crushed herbs. built into molecules and compounding in a way that seems nearly impossible. should be impossible. but isn’t. a medical miracle, and maybe if he applied it different jinsol could be finding applications that would astonish, would’ve hefted him out of the slums of elysium on some miracle cure. but he doesn’t. just finds a way to manufacture emotion, to create a fabricated sense of bliss or love or warmth for people to envelope themselves in. like whiskey to warm yourself in the middle of a blizzard. a sort of danger ignored for that immediate sense of comfort.
:// MODIFICATIONS —
despite being an elysium native and building a large enough business that he has more means than most, jinsol doesn’t have many body modifications to speak of. just two.
the first is one he got done before he worked his way up, before he was able to pay enough for something above the books. but he’d needed it in the before period of his life. less now, though it’s a comforting reminder that it’s there. if you peel back the skin of his right wrist, there lies a hollowed out tube nestled between veins and bones. resting inside is a sliver of a knife.sharp and poised near a trigger spring. if he digs his finger in near his forearm and jams down on the end of the mechanism, it cuts out out. not entirely pleasant, considering it rips through skin on the way out. it also has to be manually wound back into his arm, meaning he has to seek someone out every time he hits the trigger. it’s meant as a last ditch defense system, for a hand ideally tucked up against a throat. he used to need it, back before he was working with hades. back when he was peddling his own goods and on his own. there’s a scar on his wrist now, a jagged sort of line left over from the two times he’s used it.
the second is less intrusive. a holographic tattoo on the nape of his head, a circle ring of a sun curved around the first jut of bone from his spine. something that shimmers and shivers and shakes before it implodes. then the hologram is looped back whole once again.
>> LOADING BIOGRAPHY …
tw: blood, drugs
RETRIEVING MEMORY…
21430102_sooji.vrml
a glitch – a vibrant flash of blue that reads so bright it hurts the retinas – the angle seems tipped. like the world’s off its axis. set instead on a lopsided table. baited breath, waiting for everything piled on top of it to slide off in a violent clatter. that’s the reaction the memory loop gives off when replayed. something not quite right that settles like nausea in the gut. trepidation. the unwanted kind. the memory holder’s perceptions, emotions flooding in. the room is sterile. blank-white floods the space. walls and sheets and floor. a glossy linoleum. there’s a rhythmic beep from a machine. a baby nestled in a set of arms – the memory holder’s – another glitch. the baby wails. the angle of the memory slips more. like the downward trajectory of a rollercoaster. from here, she plummets.
21430102_sooji.txt
lee sooji, a woman with too many secrets and unwillingness to divide interest from herself. naturally, a baby doesn’t fit well into the equation. even if it was planned. there’s not a lot of picture perfect anything that happens in elysium, but she’d always liked the idea of that. perfection. it’s hard to obtain though. even with a knowledge of chemical-infused magic that gave her the ability to create and shape her own world in the form of hallucinogens. is it a surprise that the marriage fell apart? probably not. a lot of things fall apart in elysium. dismantled by the society around them. he moved on, she was stuck with a baby that she didn’t really want. ignored at first. sharp cries, neglected fits. palms fit to ears of someone who constantly decided she was too young to deal with this mess of a life.
her feelings changed overtime. not dramatically, in a wild shift of personality. but slightly. when jinsol started to take shape more as a human than living soundbox. she liked some things, and she could list them off in a way that was reminiscent of explaining why one preferred a certain restaurant. she liked the adoration in his eyes. the way words could be pieced together into loving sentiments, something that seemed to runaway along with her ex husband. and sooji had always liked that. adoration. she valued it above nearly anything else. instilled the same beliefs into a young mind. he grew under fickle reliance. like a plant with a broken trellis, bent with the whims of her emotions. whether or not she felt like being a mother. whether or not she felt like being free of his shackling existence.
21490714_jinsol.vrml
it’s a humid day. it’s distinguishable based on that summer haze of warped air that makes the floor look bent. the click-whir of a broken fan. the chunks of ice jinsol has shoved into his cheeks, like an overambitious chipmunk. not that jinsol has any idea what a chipmunk is, he’s never seen one. just the scattered pigeons with broken-toed feet that loiter near the bottom step of his building. he looks like a wild thing. a smattering of band-aids covering scabbing, knobby knees. overgrown hair that hangs knotted in his eyes. a dirty smudge near his nose. gangly colt legs thrown over the edge of a dilapidated couch. he’s alone. some might say he’s too young to be alone, but he’d brustle up defensive at that. independent. biting off more than he can chew, but he’d rather swallow it down and half-choke than risk his pride and spit it back up. there’s a children’s cartoon projected up from an old holo-box sitting on a coffee table. sometimes it fritzes, and he stretches out a leg to thwack it with his heel. every ten minutes it seems like there’s a run of commercials hoping to sell him synthetically flavored juice. eventually, he loses patience and separates himself from the show, slips outside the door. some might say he’s too young to be running around the streets of elysium on his own. jinsol would cut them a smile, jagged and feral. a boy raised by chaos and the immediate impulses of a six-year-old.
21490714_jinsol.txt
jinsol’s youth is cut up into fractured pieces. the moments when his mother was there, and the moments when she wasn’t. his morals are ambiguous, lessons learned infrequent. and sometimes best avoided anyway. it depended on her mood, that’s what he learned. and it turned his desperate. seeking affection in a way that could turn near-violent. he’s a mirror image, in some ways. her reflection. has a constant needing for affection and validation. and when she gives, he takes. soaks it up. he likes it best when she’s at home with him, and jinsol babbles this out often. she regales stories in his ear, drifting off in the crook of her arm. humid ‘ i love you’s whispered against her neck, and she tells him just how much she loves him back. he can tell when she’s going to disappear by the look in her eyes. it’s like a lightswitch that only she can reach. a blank stare, or an emotion he can’t quite peace together yet, but he knows it’s bad. knows it makes him feel bad.
it’s resentment, but that’s a connection he pieces together later.
and then he’s on his own. raiding the fridge for non-perishables left behind and amusing himself. sometimes he skips school. it doesn’t matter, nobody notices he’s gone in the overcrowded classroom. wanders the streets instead, making friends with stray cats slipping through gaps of buildings too small a fit for most anyone else. a grand adventure, that’s what he’d tell himself to keep from feeling lonely. and then she’d come back, and it’d warm his bones. chase away that feeling. would try to grip to her with nails embedded into skin when he saw that look in her eyes. until he was pried off. he thinks he left scars, when he reminisces back nowadays, kept up late at night, sleepless. tries to reimagine his mother. but he can’t remember just how violent his longing for her to stay was.
21601130_jinsol.vrml
he’s older this time, pushing the bounds of maturity. stick-skinny still, and he drowns in his clothes. his hair is stained purple. so are the tips of his fingers. a smell of potent chemicals hang in the air, something nearly palpable. it’s either from the fresh dye or the burner he’s bent over. there’s a vial clamped above it. something bubbling and neon when the fluorescent flicker of the overhead light decides to work in brief moments of unsurity. his mother’s next to him, fingers tracing spirals up and down the line of his spine. every so often she redirects his hand. murmurs words into his ear. a palm pressed to the small of his back, and it’s nearly like a transferal. pressing magic into nerves. he doesn’t think it’s how it works, really. but it felt like it at the time, sitting in that tiny, cluttered apartment. a flicker of fire and warmth and belonging as his mother taught him secrets that were hoarded in his family. jinsol wonders if they’d ever been illustrious. if this strange magic ever mattered. there’s a sizzle-pop of a noise. a change in color. the vial’s removed from the fire. eventually, his mother tests it. he holds his breathe, waits to see if there will be a change in her eyes.
21601130_jinsol.txt
jinsol loves and hates it. the knowledge he has, the strange way he can cut chemicals with magic. something that grows larger and more complex as he does. now though, all of seventeen, and he loves the connection it’s forged between him and his mother. the way she’ll gravitate back to him, pass down this strange family heirloom. and he hates it, because it robs him from her too. how she’ll twist herself up in these strange moods and slip out of his life. to find someone, something, more capable than him. more fulfilling. but he took those mismatched emotions and jammed them into his own ambitions. his mother had never really scratched past the surface of capabilities.
jinsol became obsessive, in the same manic way he tends to become obsessive about a lot of things he cares about. and with that same strange of caring, an emotion caught halfway between love and violence. he found ways to bottle bliss, press desire into pills. a manmade euphoria, and he expanded his experimentation as he got older. found a way to coax out truth from an unwilling tongue and an addled mind. trust from the wary, if only they’d swallow down some of his magic. how much of jinsol’s success is luck? if one knew what he could make, the obsessive lengths he’d go to carve out what he decided he was owed, it would be a laughable question.
21630214_jinsol.vrml
the setting’s changed in this memory. the apartment’s even smaller, and the window’s stuck. the corner doesn’t fit down all the way. a cold gust slips underneath everytime the wind howls, angry and cutting with frost. a worn curtain flutters. there’s hardly a point in it, it’s nearly transparent from sun damage. jinsol’s fingers are white from the cold. there’s a scattering of pills on a table. his hands are sticky with blood. so is his wrist. half-congealed. his face is white too, but he looks ghost-startled over cold. the shock of a situation that saps the life, leaves everything devoid of color. eventually he fumbles for an old shirt, jams it over his hand. the blade’s still visible, sticking out from his arm. his own blade. his own modification. he slipped it into the side of a client broke enough to think wiping out jinsol inventory might’ve been a good idea. a heavy-sounding curse falls from his lips. a messy swipe of his hands as he tries to collect everything upturned on the table. manic eyes and chattering teeth. a glamorous life. it’s what he yearns for. he can’t meet his own expectations.
21630214_jinsol.txt
eventually, jinsol got sick of his mother’s dizzying circles that left them both lost. he moved out, on. hellbent on turning everything she taught him into a tool for himself. a way to crawl from the sheer desperation he seemed to live in. he craved opulence and wonder. awe and admiration. for all he’s seemingly worth now, jinsol’s initial endeavors were small, touch and go. dealt with the sorts of people that were elysium born and bred. namely: none too kind. but addiction’s a market all its own in this sort of place, and jinsol took advantage of it. he’s used his mod all of twice. a painful thing, and it’s left a scar. he doesn’t know what happened to either of the people on the other end of it. he’s callous enough to wish them dead. human enough that he wakes up in cold-sweat at four in the morning sometimes wondering if he’s a murderer.
it took a while to work his way up, and maybe he used some underhanded methods. doses meant to coax out secrets, understanding, trust. worked his way up and out of what seemed to be closets advertised as apartments. until he could afford a better supply, turned his brand into a necessity. ended up getting to know some bigger players around elysium. tried so very hard to pick up his mother’s mantle – to continue that endless, pointless quest of building a perfect life.
21680512_jinsol.vrml
jinsol looks almost garish. almost. draped in twined gold necklaces and delicate rings stacked along the lines of his knuckles. catch him in the right light of the fluorescent club-shifting-neon and he might glimmer like imitation sunlight. a white silk shirt and bottle service tucked away in a back corner of the afterlife. he has money, and he wears it like bragging rights. but he thrives on it. the stares. the attention. jealous, wanting. he craves it as much as people seem to crave his drugs. a symbiotic relationship. music thrums too loud around the room. enough to shake at bones. he spins a pill between he knuckles, and his eyes follow it. like he’s considering slipping it underneath his tongue. eventually, it’s pocketed. he doesn’t want to be his mother – as losing a battle as it seems to be.
21680512_jinsol.txt
twenty-five and he’s managed to carve out his own legacy. something built on the backs of vices. exploitative to be sure. but he’d argue a necessary one. doesn’t everyone deserve to be happy? he’s got connections, buyers, more than enough clients that he’s long ago been able to afford to move into an apartment with more than one room. he likes old school opulence. likes gold and velvet. likes paper-thin silk shirts, the subdued glimmer of diamonds. maybe he’d have more money if he didn’t waste it all so carelessly. it slips like water from his fingers. jewelry, furniture, perfumes, alcohol. anything that catches his whims, the unhoned impulse controls he’s given into all is life, only now he has the means for bigger mistakes.
21690326_jinsol.vrml
jinsol’s sprawled out on a couch. crushed velvet. it’d look lavish if not for the blotchy purpled wine stain near one arm of it. music spirals from a metal-boxed contraption in the corner. there’s a blanket tossed on top of it, maybe to hide a hologram it’s meant to simultaneously project. every time he takes a breath, it sounds wet. like pneumonia’s made a home from his lungs. his eyes are unfocused, and there’s a sheen of sweet on his brow. laid out next to him are vials in a shimmering variety of colors. an uncapped bottle of something that smells potent and alcoholic. there’s a retch of a noise, but nothing comes out. he rolls to his side and nearly topples. a manic laugh follows him.
21690326_jinsol.txt
new creations are in need of a willing test subjects. that’s what he tells himself, to keep himself from reflecting that warped image of his mother. bad habits catch up to him, pile up. he ignores the repercussions. it feels, sometimes, like he grew up wrong. like he’s constantly searching and seeking and coming up empty handed. but what he’s searching for is unknown, and without a name. despite it, he tries to continue his image of faux-perfection. what else is there to live for in the wasteland that is elysium?
:// AGE — 25
:// OCCUPATION — drug runner
:// CLASS — elysium native
>> LOADING DEVELOPMENT ...
:// MAGIC —
on the point of biochemical magic, yani is a newcomer to the science. to the art. it’s a lost talent in so many ways, and one that she had no exposure to as a child. maybe things would have been easier, if she had. but yani has always had books, the promise of the old, of sprawling forests and wild grown gardens. yani has always had a deep, near spiritual connection to the biological, the natural, almost in defiance of her mechanized and austere surroundings. since beginning to work with apollo, she’s become adept at the hydroponic arts as much as the magical, becoming a provider of materials, grown in test tubes and under stark lights, recreating heirloom plant varieties and hunting down long lost seeds, attempting to scientifically and magically recreate the germination process, propogating long lost flora in modified greenhouse boxes, imbuing them with the enchantments that apollo has shared with her.
:// MODIFICATIONS —
moderate reflex enhancement system - wired in under the skin, implanted in her neural network, yani has taken on the physical advantage of an enhanced reflex system, programmed to anticipate danger signs in order to systematically avoid those clients who might attempt to take advantage of her. this was implanted after her time with apollo began, necessary for her to efficiently complete her jobs for him.
microscopic eyes - she has implanted natural appearing visual enhancements that allow her to more accurately pinpoint potential issues with her crops, machinery, and so on. alongside her enhanced reflexes, this allows her the ability to work more successfully and precisely with her hydroponics, in terms of creation and maintenance of both biological and mechanical components.
cranial bomb - in order to ensure her discretion as a runner and apprentice to apollo, she’s had a cranial bomb installed, designed to specifically target the section of her brain storing information relative to the enterprise. should she attempt to start her own business, short apollo in general, or share relevant industry secrets, the bomb will detonate. while she won’t die, she’d be assuredly damaged, lose the relevant secret information, and be incapacitated requiring hospitalization for an indeterminate period.
>> LOADING BIOGRAPHY ...
“i taught you to fight and to fly. what more could there be?”
lee yani is born to elysium like a peter pan is born of neverland. perhaps as soon as she existed, the city welcomed her, open armed, it’s cavernous maw yearning and open, eager to take in one of its own.
her mother dallied amid late night suitors with full enough pockets, her father a footnote left forgotten. and in time yani too was forgotten, with a pat on the head and the instruction to come back by supper.
and so the city raised her. slick streets and neon lights her playground, the dull slick of the rain on her cheeks companion to the dreary concrete structures she made her home. hours spent honing clever fingers and making use of childish winsomeness to fill her stomach and her mind. crushed into the back corner of cramped school rooms, overworked teachers that didn’t notice if she was there or not, didn’t notice if she snuck into the classes of older children, if she stole textbooks from the cluttered shelves, dusty and unraveling at the bindings.
and when she returned one day to find her mother absent, she took this new reality in as much stride as anyone can. it’s a common scenario in the slums of a slum, after all. people go missing. and when she appeared there was a spark of enthusiasm and cheer, but there was also a changing that had occured, an acceptance of individuality and independence. a trust that had died.
and so when her mother did disappear, for good that time, she wasn’t all that surprised.
“they have to be one thing or the other, because being so small they unfortunately have room for one feeling only at a time.”
raised by the city, she thrives in it. it’s not the sort of thriving that comes with full pockets or a full stomach, but she survives. she adapts and overcomes. it’s a band of them in the end, a tangle of lost children who carve out a home for themselves in a dark world, under the glare of the lights.
but she feels.
she’s a creature of emotion, from one to the next in record time and impossible intensity, a signal flare in the dying light of a burned out city, a beacon. it brings people to her, it draws them in. they turn a blind eye to her half empty pockets, they keep her just above the edge of destitute. let her take the empty back room of the basement as a makeshift home, and someone leaves a spare space heater for her. it’s broken but she fixes it, discovers a knack for the mechanical.
a knack for survival.
she’s a young girl forced to grow up too soon, and there’s a spirit of youth she holds onto. a wild intensity and an innocent selfishness. she eschews the benefits of implantations and augmentations, at first for the sake of finances and later for some misplaced integrity. retains a strange purity of body that leaves a rosy flush to her cheeks and a lingering youthfulness to her expression, some gleaming promise of what innocence and beauty might once have been. like a rose in a case, a relic of a lost time.
“sometimes, though not often, she had dreams, and they were more painful than the dreams of others.”
she’s a ringleader, though she doesn’t know when it happened or how. there’s something innate to it, a kind of charm that is lost on many and loved by few. but those who respond to it, they pull into her thrall. she steals her way through life, a mix of odd jobs and slight of hand to get where she’s going, to take what she needs. and usually not much more. she’s got a bit of a moral compass- just a little. its an old book that takes her by surprise, a biology textbook, a botany grimoire, one that offers up knowledge of long lost materials, plants and flowers and herbs that she’s never been able to imagined, more than she can fathom. she becomes obsessed, reclusive, fascinated with the promise of greenery, lushness, the garden of eden calling out to her in siren song. she devours information, collects samples, and they wither under her hands, left unable to master something with one piece of the puzzle missing.
that’s when she finds him, apollo, and his concoctions. whispers of a magic that calls out to her, sings it’s song siren to some secret part of her soul that is yet unexplored. she hears of it and it sounds right. it feels right. she gets her hands on a potion and when it hits the tip of her tongue she knows.
she just knows.
the formula plays itself out in her mind, a catalogue of herbs and adjustments, a latticework of molecules and modifications that she only partly comprehends. it rattles around in her head, a buzz of information on overload. and like a child she is obsessed, fascinated, begins to try to piece it together, attempts to recreate the drug on her own time, her own turf. it’s a herculean task for a girl without resources or training, and as she goes about stealing and purchasing and chasing down ingredients, she draws attention to herself, at first unwanted.
when she’s hauled into apollo’s backroom, she wakes strapped to a chair with an unfamiliar face sneering down at her. the whirr of a mechanical arm rearing back for a slap is the first precursor to the pain that erupts next, has her spitting a mouthful of blood to the floor.
they want to know what she knows and they want to know who told her.
and in the end, it takes hours before they acknowledge that, perhaps, she’s telling the truth. that the knowledge came from within. this is what earns her an audience with the sun himself.
“ you can have anything in life if you will sacrifice everything else for it.”
its as good as medicine, as bright as the sun. salvation in a bottle. she salivates for want of knowing, and when he offers her apprenticeship with strings she leaps first and doesn’t look back.
its not until she’s on the table that she thinks she might have made a mistake. she’s strapped down to cold metal and pinned beneath instrumentation. they craft her to the task, lay implantations in her eyes and a wiring through her nerves, snaking along the lines of her bones and in the fibers of her muscles.
they offer her the chance for cosmetic upgrades- wild hair or holographic tattoos, multicolored eyes or jeweled implantations, but she denies.
and as she learns those secrets, as she trains in endless hours of bent heads and hyperfocus, she is reminded of that excruciating trade she has made. of how they’ve opened her skull, fingering the line of a scar that runs beneath short shorn hair, growing back slow where it was shaved for surgery. a failsafe, a modern non-compete clause, a cyanide pill hidden in her teeth to keep her silent, remote detonated and programmed, hopefully, not to kill. but it’s an illegal technology and as always, your mileage may vary.
but she trades in secrets and magic now, and such a failsafe is to be expected, insurance of her trustworthiness in this wholly untrustworthy world.
“and thus it will go on, so long as children are innocent and heartless.”
what does it mean to be too much? to feel too much, to love too much, to hate too much. she is a creature of absolutes, she is all or nothing, she is all and all and all and all. erratic and wild, like hebe she is a force of life, she is a wild thing that breathes youth into those around her. feeds ambrosia to the miserable and uplifts the fallen, a creature of excess and of gladdening, cupbearer to the broken. and, oh, there are many. she has too much heart for elysium, for a girl born into its clutches, too much want and too many dreams for a world long barren of hope or promise. anachronistic and native to the landscape of elysium, she is an impossible creature of contradiction. she is as much beholden to the hedonism of elysium as she is the desire for the purity of long past times, at odds fascinated and enamored with the progress of neo seoul and disgusted with the opulence and austerity of olympus. she dreams of impossible things, lush gardens and the promises of eden, and lives eternally unsatisfied, selfishly chasing after her own longings.
bang chan, helios *
katie kim, hestia *
kim taehyung, dionysus
kim jongdae, artemis **
kim jongin, hephaestus
undecided, ares
undecided, athena
undecided, cassandra
undecided, nike
FILE LOADING : // 20200114
bae joohyun, medusa
park chanyeol, zeus *
undecided, eros
undecided, iris
undecided, poseidon
FILE LOADING : // 20200115
seo kangjoon, hades
ERROR: FILE NOT FOUND : // 20200111
undecided, chronos
UPLOAD COMPLETE : // 20200112
im jinah, cerberus as shin raon – accepted
jung jaewon, hercules as lee sungki – accepted
jung soojung, persephone as gun mila – accepted
kang seulgi, hebe as lee yani – accepted
kim seolhyun, tyche as kang saerom – accepted
lee taemin, apollo as song jinsol – accepted
lee jieun, aphrodite as oh rua – accepted
min yoongi, hermes as seo gun – accepted
park sooyoung, arachne as ahn chaesol – accepted
tachibana eri, hera as kitagawa honoka – accepted
yoshizawa ryo, aceso as kimata eita – accepted
A few faces that we think would work well are actors Lee Dongwook, Woo Dohwan, SHINee Onew, Minho, Infinite Sunggyu, Myungsoo, Highlight Kikwang, VIXX N for guys and SNSD Taeyeon, Seohyun, fx Victoria, soloists BoA, Ha:tfelt, EXID Hani, actresses Song Hyeko, Min Hyorin for girls!
