Nise's solid pink eyes shot open with the fervor one would have after a horrifying experience.
of course, she'd have that dream again. the one where she dies.
but was it really her?
no, no that's crazy, of course, it was her. she simply had an over-imaginative dream with memories that weren't her own and a body that was very similar to hers.
speaking of bodies, the grumbling of her stomach told Nise it was time to feed hers.
with a quick look around her, she found everything just the same as always.
and by that I mean it was four white walls with a few shelves of books, a desk, a couple of posters with a man in a pig mask, most of which sported the phrase 'Blood for the Blood God!' and featured depictions of anarchy in the background.
oh and then there was the tea. specifically, the hundreds of cups of shitty tea, held in shitty china. she hated all of it, but for some reason, she couldn't get enough.
it was bordering on addiction but thankfully didn't cross the line.
as Nise rose and slid herself out of bed, she stepped on the absolute blanket of teabags covering the floor to the point it might as well be carpet.
okay fine, it was a total addiction. shut up.
the mirror resting on the desk was somewhat foggy, otherwise, Nise would be able to see her short, chestnut hair that settled just past her chin, her fair skin speckled with a light brushing of freckles, and of course her unique eyes that sported the colour of the sakura trees in bloom.
but that didn't matter. not when she opened the drawer of her desk and pulled out the mask with nothing on it but a smiley face.
latching the straps together, the girl settled the mask onto her face for the millionth time. now all there was to do was get dressed and her day could begin.
one sports bra, slightly wrinkled stark-white button-up shirt, pink and white striped underwear, and dark grey knee-shorts later the girl was ready.
what next... oh yes, breakfast. how could she forget, it was literally the whole reason she awoke in the first place.
definitely hunger and not a weird dream. fuck off.
stepping out of her bedroom, Nise headed to the small, cramped kitchen of her small apartment.
Nise's breakfast was over I'm a matter of minutes. mainly because she didn't bother cooking the Demon Mantis Steak she pulled out of the fridge.
it was basically a day past the expiration date, but that was okay. it not like she could get sick from rotten meat anyways, but even if that was possible it was already too late to care.
recentering her mask and slipping on her headphones, it was finally time for Nise to leave her apartment and head to work. no sense in getting fired for being late, it was already hard as hell for Homunculi to get jobs in general.
thankfully her boss was just enough of a cheapskate to prefer collecting a large amount of spider Homunculi as low-pay-high-output workers making silk fabrics instead of paying for materials from a third-party vendor.
you know, the typical racial labor exploitation that humanity would have bitched and moaned about some two hundred years ago.
hypocritical pricks.
it was almost enough for Nise to miss the days when she could sit on a window and catch flies and not give two shits about anything.
two hours and one ride on the bullet train later, the brunette reached a modest-sized building with 'Kurone's Clothing' written in big, neon-pastel letters of Obnoxious blues and greens above the doorway.
with a sigh, Nise turned off her music and walked around to the employee entrance to swipe her badge and clock in. the second her card had made a full sweep through the machine, its light turned green, and the screen displayed her information.
'Name: Busujima, Nise.'
'Age: 149 years.'
'Sex: Female.'
'Race: First Generation Homunculus, Mizugumo Spider.'
'Nationality: Japanese.'
'Information Confirmed, Entry Permitted.'
Nise clicked her tongue in disgust at being referred to as a first-generation anything.
the 'first-generation' of Homunculus was made for the Twelfth World War. despite being a combat type made for this purpose herself, Nise never actually fought in any battles.
off-topic, back to complaining about the new generation. you know, the ones that were made to be children's toys or companions for lonely fuckers who have no life.
cunts.
gritting her teeth behind her mask, its deceptive smile hiding her pissed-off grimace, the brunette opened the employee's door and walked in, slamming it behind her before heading to her station.
slowly calming down and sighing as she produced soft, silky threads from the spinnerettes under her fingernails, her pink eyes wandered about the machine that would take said silk and transform it into usable sheets of cloth.
"Pricks." she muttered in her somewhat boyish voice with the tone perfectly matching her mood. annoyed.