[88 / 32 / ?]
Quoted By: >>6103596
Done as another 'proof of concept' quest, but with lower-quality art using the painter so as to give more regular responses.
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Your name is <span class="mu-i">Hope Bernice Jr.</span>, you're a 28-year-old lady restaurateur, and you're <span class="mu-s">FUCKED.</span>
Before you were spit out of a test tube, your mother, <span class="mu-i">Hope Bernice Sr.</span>, decided she wanted a clone to take over the 'family business', [u:lit]Hope Home Cooking[/u:lit]. That clone, of course, was you. You didn't really want to yourself- you were hoping you would break it big in the corporate scene. Any job would have worked, just to get out of the hell that was <span class="mu-s">Mossless Stone</span>. It's certainly not mossless, but otherwise, there's no green at all in this ever-moving city.
No matter how hard you worked or tried, though, there was no climbing up any of those ladders. Even the desperate ploy of offering yourself as a kind of concubine didn't work- your nature as a clone cost you a head of height and ten years or more off your lifespan. Most fetishists with the money to spend spend it on virtual reality, to avoid the judgmental looks and awkward conversations.
After all of your options got cut down to the bone, you had to take over after all, crawling back to this shitty countertop spot that pretends to be a homey old-time diner but only has four seats. They're all diner-style barstools that provide two feet of eating space, with their backs to the street. There's rain cover, which is the only reason anyone would actually bother to sit down here besides abject starvation condition.
Thankfully, your mother is dead, so now you don't have to hear her screaming in your ear about how you're a failure of an inheritor. Unfortunately, your mother is dead, and that means that you're going to have to make this fucking place run all on your own. Also, she was a foot taller than you, which means you need to drag around a stepstool to do most of her jobs, which includes everything from taking orders to moving supplies to actually cooking the food. You're probably going to have to hire someone eventually, but you can't afford that right now.
In fact, you can't afford almost anything- you exist at the mercy of the corpo-government, which technically owns 'your' business. You're a franchisee of [u:lit]Smiling Days Food Services™[/u:lit]. Just to further kick you in the beans, most of your meat is supplied from failed clones- after all, clones are property, and they don't give a fuck about ethics. They were who Mom bought you from, and they put a device at the base of your skull that uploads artificially expedited training. It doubles as a phone and could theoretically be used as a kill switch or control your body like a puppet.
You've considered killing yourself, but besides the fact that a suicide attempt would get punished for property damage, that would put an end to your smoking habit, one of the few pleasures in life. You have to cut it, one way or another.
---
Your name is <span class="mu-i">Hope Bernice Jr.</span>, you're a 28-year-old lady restaurateur, and you're <span class="mu-s">FUCKED.</span>
Before you were spit out of a test tube, your mother, <span class="mu-i">Hope Bernice Sr.</span>, decided she wanted a clone to take over the 'family business', [u:lit]Hope Home Cooking[/u:lit]. That clone, of course, was you. You didn't really want to yourself- you were hoping you would break it big in the corporate scene. Any job would have worked, just to get out of the hell that was <span class="mu-s">Mossless Stone</span>. It's certainly not mossless, but otherwise, there's no green at all in this ever-moving city.
No matter how hard you worked or tried, though, there was no climbing up any of those ladders. Even the desperate ploy of offering yourself as a kind of concubine didn't work- your nature as a clone cost you a head of height and ten years or more off your lifespan. Most fetishists with the money to spend spend it on virtual reality, to avoid the judgmental looks and awkward conversations.
After all of your options got cut down to the bone, you had to take over after all, crawling back to this shitty countertop spot that pretends to be a homey old-time diner but only has four seats. They're all diner-style barstools that provide two feet of eating space, with their backs to the street. There's rain cover, which is the only reason anyone would actually bother to sit down here besides abject starvation condition.
Thankfully, your mother is dead, so now you don't have to hear her screaming in your ear about how you're a failure of an inheritor. Unfortunately, your mother is dead, and that means that you're going to have to make this fucking place run all on your own. Also, she was a foot taller than you, which means you need to drag around a stepstool to do most of her jobs, which includes everything from taking orders to moving supplies to actually cooking the food. You're probably going to have to hire someone eventually, but you can't afford that right now.
In fact, you can't afford almost anything- you exist at the mercy of the corpo-government, which technically owns 'your' business. You're a franchisee of [u:lit]Smiling Days Food Services™[/u:lit]. Just to further kick you in the beans, most of your meat is supplied from failed clones- after all, clones are property, and they don't give a fuck about ethics. They were who Mom bought you from, and they put a device at the base of your skull that uploads artificially expedited training. It doubles as a phone and could theoretically be used as a kill switch or control your body like a puppet.
You've considered killing yourself, but besides the fact that a suicide attempt would get punished for property damage, that would put an end to your smoking habit, one of the few pleasures in life. You have to cut it, one way or another.
