#neoaphrodite

[haveasnack]

Neoaphrodite

[haveasnack]

Neoaphrodite

[haveasnack]

Neoaphrodite

[haveasnack]

Neoaphrodite

[haveasnack]

Neoaphrodite

[machinakrp]

>> OPEN OH RUA’S FILE …

:// 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.

[machinakrpx]

>> OPEN OH RUA’S FILE …

:// 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.