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*** Maybe the SMC was originally a research group that either discovered or created the Strangevirus, and she's the original head of the team? Certainly opens up some new and darker paths to look into, like the possibility of her somehow influencing the way the Strangevirus works. |
This statue is formed of pieces of hard plastic, precision-molded, snapped together at the joints, and lined with glossy beige fibers to simulate a pelt. It models an androgynously beautiful kangaroo wearing a precise powder-blue pixie-cut and a white pillbox hat. She is holding a jewel in a set of calipers, wearing a satisfied smile as she examines the gem through a telescoping lens mounted on her right eye. She wears nothing else but a set of sensorpads on her fingertips and a clean white labcoat. The coat is parted to reveal her pouch, a glossy flap of powder blue bioplastic bearing a prominent 30+ digit serial number in MICR font. Though her pouch is not appreciably a feature of her birth gender, it carries a little joey. He examines a smaller gem between his fingers, and wears a proportionately smaller expression of wonder.
Bits of broken electronics form this sculpture, compacted so seamlessly that they suggest not a work of art, but a being that rose spontaneously from them. The suggested figure is a white-tailed deer. He is tall, muscular, and almost nude. His only natural materials are his antlers, a genuine and imposing 30-point rack held on with epoxy blobs, and his cock, a knobbly Osiris wand of uncut wood. The buck is caught midway through a swaggering dance move, his right fist raised over his head, his eyes turned skyward, and his hip slung to the side. Well-wishers have set a loose leather duster over his shoulders, a bottle of two-boost in his free hand, and a stylish spiked cuff around his wrist.
Carved to painstaking detail in lacquered wood, painted in somber tones, this statue portrays a seated eight-armed mink focusing a stern expression through archaic spectacles. Shi has a robust physique bordering on voluptuous, but it's curtailed by a dignified pata-Victorian formal dress, black with white ruffles; only a scandalous red ribbon in hir hair reminds Top's residents of hir unruly past. In hir uppermost hands, shi holds a plant root and a stylus. THe next pair of hands is crossed over hir bosom; the next, over hir lap; the next, over hir thighs.
Made of spongy durafoam and covered in suspiciously located stains, Bottom's mascot is obviously pretty thoroughly beloved. It manifests here as a gamine little vole with a reddish-pink pelt and butch headfur. Thin golden rings, dozens of them, glint through its ears, nose, brow, and lip. It wears a flimsy robe that does well to even cover its wearer's shoulders and hips, leaving another several dozen piercings revealed. The robe is even slit up the back, baring its wearer's asscurves in the process of freeing its tail. There's no telltale glint between its legs, though, since there's nothing there but a smooth, flat patch of fur. Fortunately, the ingenious denizens of Bottom seem to have done just fine with its foam rubber mouth, if the fresh spurts on its cheeks are any indication. They've even go so far as to attach a pair of riding stirrups on a belt around its waist.
This piece of public art is fashioned mostly from resilient lumps of rubbery translucent gel, vibrantly colored and mixed with glitterdust. At the enter of the scene is a lean, limber falcon in some sort of uniform, his body rippling with natural menace. But his beak has sprung open in an expression of rapture and surprise underneath an opaque, particolor harlequin mask that covers his eyes. Surrounding the raptor is a corps of doll-like, faceless lynxes half his height, each of a different rainbow hue. Two of them wrap his legs in cords like May-pole dancers, while two more wrest his vestigial-winged arms into an opaque black armbinder. A fifth lynxdoll sits atop the falcon's shoulders and buckles his throat into a jingle-bell collar. A sixth one steadies the birdman's waist while a seventh attaches a wind-up key to his back, hoisting up the silver rod like a soldier planting a flag.
It's not clear what this statue's sculpted from, but it's terribly lifelike. Oh... Oh, merciful gods. There remains some evidence that this being, still twitching faintly now and again, was once a female otter: a rangy build, webbed feet, a pudgycute face. She even has dimples visible under the fuzzy silver patches of fungus. Her head is lifted up in a contortion of deranged hilarity, her little fangs sunk deep into her own lip, her clear brown eyes distant and plainly mad. She stands en pointe and arches backwards, like she's been wound up by a winch. She wears a standard Strange Medical Corps outfit, airtight black rubber covered in red crosses, but the gas mask rests by her feet and bears clawmarks. Hundreds of black thorns pierce the skintight outfit from the inside, forming a spiky crest over her shoulder, forbidding talons through her nipples, and a corset-like pattern around her waist. Little domes and hexagonal scales of mirrored silver have broken out all over her fur. Her wounds all seem to bleed inexhaustible quicksilver, which puddles into a fountain drain at her feet.
Founders? Heroes? Archetypes? Were they once alive? Are they extrusions of their Warps, or embodiments; do they cast an influence, or are they influenced themselves; were they always statues, or did they become them, and how? Can they speak? What would they say?
Please speculate. Wildly, if you so desire.
The fact that no one knows who the statues were and are doesn't stop myths and urban legends (in which they may figure as heroes, founders, or even subversives) from proliferating. That the myths are frequently contradictory and even self-contradictory doesn't stop the mythopoets.