This ongoing work in progress is entirely a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed within are entirely fictional and any resemblance to people, living or dead is coincidental.
No part of the work may be reproduced in any form without the explicit permission of the author.
Copyright Ion Fyr 2022
Nila was struck by the perfection of the projection. Projections were commonplace, mass media made use of them, as did immersive games and narratives. With all the countless credits spent on making the theater as real as possible, there was always that uncannyness, that slightly off vibe with projections, especially when they spoke directly at the audience. This was especially prevalent in the propaganda channels: corporate mouths, presented as human, but came across as animated corpses. When you can see the pixels, however small, points of light emanating from pores, you know it’s fake, even if it’s occupying a dimentional space right in front of you. So close you can smell the electrostatic, burnt dust smell. (Three centuries of progress and smell-o-vision is no closer to fruition.)
This, however, was a work of art. It had the look of a female-tending human, though not actually human or female. An eidolon of the ancients, standing or seated in an Attican temple, would have knelt before this one.`
The Temple of Diana [at where, or was it Artemis?] housed a statue made by [who, historical], reputed to be the best sculptor of his era and was considered to be a wonder of the ancient world. Made of marble and gold and silver and the tusks of slaughtered elephants and leviathan horns, gilt and perfumed for centuries by adoring supplicants.
Nila had seen reconstructions–the ruins had been restacked during the rebirth, after the Fires. Artists had sketched fancifully, painted pictures, then later used scans of the remains to reassemble them, model them virtually.
The point is that, Nila was impressed. Never having been before in the presence of a god she did not then kill, she was filled with awe.
It stood tall, rather floated above the floor rather than on it. As her attention was drawn to the feet, they resolved in greater exquisite detail. The gloss of the being’s skin was that of a polished ivory (not at all unlike what Constable Pool once saw in the cards, the being’s antecedent was fed to communicate, many years prior), though unlike ivory, her skin was luminous, exuding a light of it’s own–in this respect, it was similar to common projections.
The skin was without mark or blemish, except for the very circuit-like filigree, incised lines, running over her skin. These were a dark, cobaltish blue, like the old-time medicine bottles, and faintly glowing, (or could that be the overall glow?)
She was without clothes–after all, what do gods need with clothes?–so the general femaleness could be assumed, hairless (we will get to the head in a moment), still, aside from the genitalia, she was somewhat androgynous, and, she kept coming back to, somehow familiar.
The face was perfect, looking down on her from its height. Again, white with shifting lines, like straight, emphatic wrinkles. She had not even the approximation of hair, instead a writhing mass of snakes stretching from her scalp, up and out. Some wreathed her face, flowed around her ears, traced along her slender neck. Most flowed upwards into an unseen space in the ceiling–the projection faded at the upper edge.
Her eyes–where have I seen those eyes?–were piercing, aquamarine-blue, and with pupils so dilated Nila was turned on.
“Do you…,” started Nila.
“No. I do not have a name.”
And in answer to Nila’s next question: “I chose this form to present to you, for you.”
“I would like you to destroy, utterly and completely my counterpart, almost antipode. Only you are capable of success in this. I have watched you for your life. Points have been plotted through out. Constable Pool was quite articulate in describing your unique skills.”
Ion Fyr 