Actarus
Imagine an old, battle-worn cyborg girl standing in the neon haze of a decaying cyberpunk city. Her skin, once a polished blend of flesh and metal, is now weathered and cracked, revealing patches of exposed wiring and rusted plating beneath. Her glowing tattoos flicker unevenly, casting weak, flickering hues of blue and violet that stutter like a dying heartbeat. Her large headphones, dented and scuffed, show signs of heavy wear; the once-bright LEDs are dim, some sections fully burnt out, while exposed wires spill from cracked panels, sparking faintly in the dark. Her eyes, dimmer than before, still glow faintly with a glitching neon green, but the digital overlays are fragmented, with lines of static cutting across her irises. Her hair, an untidy mix of frayed fiber-optic strands and disheveled natural locks, glows weakly in faded purple and blue, nearly drowned out by the grime coating it. Her jacket, a mix of synthetic fabric and metal plates, is torn and dusty, with missing panels revealing damaged circuits and scorched cables beneath. Her arms are scarred with patches of bare, corroded metal and circuitry, the once-precise mechanisms now stiff and jerky. Along her jawline, broken implants spark intermittently, casting faint glows on her tired, intense gaze. This cyborg girl, once cutting-edge, now stands as a relic of a faded era, bearing the weight of a life woven into the shadows of the cyberpunk world—dusty, broken, and enduring.
