Astrogoth
In the center of the palacial district of the border city Mykonos, the city of ambition, there sits a two-tiered pedestal surrounded by a shallow fountain fed from spigots near the middle step, the whole fixture rung by a waxed granite roundabout for pedestrians to walk upon. Atop the structure was a work of religious importance: a statue of Heracles, the greatest pugilist and hero ever known in Grecia. In stark, matte white, the marble sculpture of the exquisite specimen of a man highlights the abdomen, muscles protruding like a parking lot of cars, and an arm relaxing over an Ionic column wrapped in garland flexes to reveal a mountainous bicep. His curly alabaster beard connects with his untamed mane, symbolic of his wild and solitary nature. His pupilless eyes appear to look down at the viewer, half-closed in an assertion of disdain for the weak hearted.
In Athenae, children often experience financial hardship, and these dregs of society sometimes form close familial bonds with the other children in their community. Sometimes these bands of urchins sidle between buildings, squeeze through sewer tunnels, or sometimes take a job delivering messages using the guise of whimsical frolicking prevent suspicion. They often wander the streets, pilfering and picking locks and pockets for treasures. In recent times, a resurgence of music and art has drawn a generation of urchins, now young adults, to ascribe importance to one's appearance, behavior, and values, emulating with makeup and paint the stark marble visage of those old world statues that represent beauty, strength, courage, valor, and respect, none of which did they ever have in childhood.
Astrogoth has never personally witnessed the statue of Heracles, nor any other famous old world sculptures. She has seen statues in tribute to them in Athenae, what the vogue elite call mockeries. Neither has she ever been to Mykonos, and only in passing has she heard of the city. Nonetheless, she has a mental approximation of that statue, and a certain interpretation of what it stands for, having been planted in her mind since she was a child wandering the squalorous districts of inner Athenae. There, she met a ghostly white man, slender in build dressed in snug snow-white streetwear, who told her the story of the statue and its subject before employing her as a messenger. The seed that story planted, invisible to her, grew over her life, now the core of who she wished to embody.
She glares beams at the road ahead, ignoring other slower cars as they zip behind her, just a blur of blue or red on the grey roads. A strobe of orange-yellow light fills her car as streetlights whiz by overhead. The pink glow from a huge sign bracing the side of a tower floods the interior of her car for a moment. She feels comfortable with the rush of speed and the blur of the lights, the lashing of wind against her face from the open window, and the assailing smell of rich gasoline. She looks at herself in the rearview mirror. Her hair is styled in tight curls that gather around her neck, her face smooth and blemishless, her ears tucked neatly over a dyed lock of hair.
The flat white powder she put on her face was sealed with a thick layer of alabaster cream, lenses hid her eyes behind a film of glossy white, and the milky hair dye that starches her ivory hair in place were all perfectly set. Her skin-tight pearl suit and gloves conceal all of the olive skin which she loathes as primitive. She begins to smile, but catches herself before tucking one side of her mouth back into place to form a proper smirk just as the man taught her. The effort and hours spent preparing and maintaining her appearance and manner are a badge of honor to anyone she cares about.
When the curves of the highway begin to straighten, she positions her car alongside a tall cargo van marked with the logo of Struckthrough Assembled Systems. As they zoom past the lower parkways, she looks into the window of the van where an automoton smoothly operates the wheel. She pulls up slightly and rests her eyes over the engine bay, carefully unholstering a gleaming silver pistol and pointing the tip of its ported barrel at the paneling. A volley of bullets thump into the driver's door of the van as she deftly maneuvers around a slow motorcycle without breaking aim. She looks in the rearview mirror and hits the brakes to skillfully swerve off of the highway at a perfectly timed exit ramp. The motorcycle skids to a stop on the highway to avoid her, it's driver throwing his hands in the air before disappearing from her view.
From the ramp, she turns to look up at the van which had skidded and slammed into the highway's barrier where its journey came to a smoking end. It sways dangerously over the ledge, it's alarm echoing through the streets. On the parkway, she turns a corner into an alley and comes to a stop, finally silencing the engine. She opens the door and tenderly uses the roof handle to pull herself out of the low coupe, slithering her lithe body up into a stiff counterpoise, smirking wryly and taking great pleasure in her own gracefulness. She flits her eyes up and down the alley and tosses the keys and weapon into the driver's seat before breaking into a saunter towards the crowded parkway. As she leaves, the dim blue light of the automaton's eye, only hanging by tangled wire from it's limp host, flashes at her for less than a second.
She slips into an army of faceless sidewalkers, far from the crowd gathering beneath the wrecked van. As she makes her escape, she draws judgemental glances from some and hiked brows from others as well as a knowing nod from a ghastly comrade who passes her by and turns into the alley from which she left.
