Soulless————————&

Soulless——————————————————————Credit for this image goes to @dissolving-time. Follow this link to see the original post.If you like this and my other stories, please consider supporting me on my Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/omnitfThank you, and enjoy the story! :D——————————————————————–I used to be different than the man you see today. They say the industry changes you, and I suppose they’re right, whoever they are. I’ve been a model for … I don’t even know how many years now. Like I said, things used to be different.It was just one photo shoot. I didn’t expect to be such a hit. It was a million in a million in a million chance. Audition, smile to the cameras, wear the gear, sell the product, get paid in royalties. It was a straightforward business arrangement. Folks say they like to have models with a lot of heart and soul. Now that I think about it, that’s what the company said when they hired me.My agent got the call, and then he called me. He barely kept himself from shouting as he told me the details. Daemonique was and still is one of the premier modeling brands out there. It costs a bundle and a half to even have them consider lending you their talent. Runways, photo ops, fashion articles, the works. If they looked at you, if they chose you, then you were in. You were set for life.I was floored. Naturally, I said yes. I signed the contract and joined my fellow models in the spotlight, and my agent was offered a hefty sum for snatching me. He still lives very well, from what I understand. Daemonique poached him from his firm, something about being a, “devil of a recruiter.” We still talk sometimes, but usually it’s just when he offers me my new assignment. Sometimes, he brings new talent with him to meet me. People worship me, idolize me.That used to impress me. Now I feel … indifferent, I suppose. It’s … difficult to describe. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the attention, more that … I suppose I slide into whatever they want me to be. That’s my purpose as a model.I remember when I was introduced to my hero in the modeling community, Nathan Bolaterro. My smile was radiant, my handshake firm and only slightly exaggerated. His smile was reserved, his bearing shifting to accommodate me.“There are many models here,” he told me, “with many masks, many faces. It’s … difficult to keep track of what brought you here sometimes, the ‘you’ that you put into your shoots. Make sure that you don’t lose track of it. That’s the best advice I can give you.” He looked almost sadly at a playbill with a beaming teenager wrapping either arm around another two other teens’ shoulders on stage. There were four of them, identically dressed in the traditional garb of the barber shop quartet from The Music Man. I could just barely see the resemblance between the middle left boy and the man that stood before me now.One of the many agents that runs this place strode through the door then. “Nate, it’s time for your sports segment.”The model swallowed heavily, and his Adam’s apple bobbed as a result. “Coming,” he said in a low-pitched tone. His gaze darted back toward that photo almost desperately. Then he turned his back and followed his handler out. I followed them into the hall, since it would be rude to remain in his dressing room.“Do well on this one, and you’ll be a shoe-in for Soulless.” The agent grinned and thumped Nathan on the back. My breath caught at the mention of that great fashion line. Only the best of the best of the best in the agency could make it into that exalted circle.I was confused when I saw, not a joyful smile, but a frown of unease cross over the model’s face.The next time I saw him, he was getting out of a session for some sports magazine spread or some other campaign. His body was huge, his voice deep and dull. The familiar brand name Soulless stretched down one meaty thigh in big capital letters over the compression pants and widely across his left pectoral as he scratched the material of his compression shirt with his free hand. “You talking to me, bro?” He didn’t seem to recognize me. His eyes were glassy and unfocused. They seemed almost dead as he stared at me through the open visor of a football helmet. The angular shape of the opening gave his head an almost block-like appearance. The rich hair that had once been so carefully styled was little more than sculpted stubble now. His pupils vibrated, like they didn’t know whether to dilate or contract. Or … maybe they were trying to, but couldn’t? “The name’s Jock….”I still remember how freaked out I was after that encounter. My agent had to explain it to me, about Nathan’s “methods.” A lot of the models follow it, apparently. I guess … I guess I do, too, now that I stop to think about it. There’s a sort of role that we’re asked to fill for each of our shoots. Whatever we model, the photographer wants us to fit certain … characters, tropes, if you will. These tropes have names, and we don them as easily as we do makeup or an outfit for the cameras. Jock, Brat, Badboy, Greaser, Guido, Father, Hipster, Businessman, and so on.It’s … easy to forget your name when you’re in this community. You become almost numb to it. You have to, if you want to survive the media storms that follow you around. Let go of the power that name has over you, and you can usually ignore most of the reporters or rabid fans trying to get your attention. It’s a trick you learn fast in the business, once you make it big. And all Daemonique models make it big. Sometimes, when I have to sign a waiver or some other legal document, I pause and stare at the line, and I have to grope in the dark to try to find the name I cast away. Sometimes, it’s suggested that I just sign with an X, like a lot of the other models do, but I don’t want to yet. I still want to be able to keep that power of the name with me. If I stop using it there, it’ll be harder to … to … what? I’m not sure. Remember? Pull back? Be myself?What even is “myself” anymore? I’m … I’m not sure.I’ve taken to carrying the photo that brought me to Daemonique’s attention with me. I find it … grounding to stare at. Almost comforting, really. I talk to it sometimes, greet it with my name, almost like it’s another person. I guess … in a way, it is. It’s sort of like a lifeline to me, a connection to the me that was before all the lights and the cameras and the flashes and masks I’ve had to don for the sake of the shoot, the product, the image that Daemonique wants me to fit.I feel less and less like a person and more and more like some … glorified prop, a life-sized doll that my handlers change, dress, shift, and adapt to their whims. And the scary part is, … I’m okay with that. I … almost relish slipping into those characters and roles now, because they fill that emptiness that I return to when I take them off. The face I see in the mirror of my dressing room is so … alien to me now. It’s nothing like the face I see when I look at this photo. And that emptiness is reinforced whenever I get in line with the other models for our weekly assessments. There’s no real talking, just standing, waiting, moving in time as the camera shutter clicks, snaps, clacks. The model turns, the process repeats, until all the sides are captured. Then we move forward, and the next one follows. The young bloods toward the back of the line whisper and talk among themselves. I used to do that, too, to be that. Now, … now it feels so … unnecessary. I stand among my peers, where quiet is the norm and blank the ideal. A canvas waiting to be painted. A whiteboard waiting to be drawn up, then cleared.…A walking, talking mannequin.Is that all I am now?Is that all my purpose is?Is this … really what I want?…Does it really even matter anymore?I feel so strange, so stripped, so … empty, even as I stand on that line now, waiting for that photo set. I pull out my photo for comfort. That tiny spark is only so much against the yawning void that’s eaten away inside of me. A wry smile curves my lips, one of the first sincere ones I’ve had in who knows how long.Did you know that some cultures believed that to capture yourself in a photo was to capture a piece of your soul? By that logic, every human who’s ever consumed media or pictures is a demon, or at least part demon. They consume those fragments, those pieces. And the models and actors and actresses let them. And they fill up with other things and ideas, just like I do when I’m in a shoot. They’re just as empty, just as desperate for fulfillment, a role, even a piece, a taste of the soul they used to be.I barely even recognize the feel of the textured mat when I step in front of the camera. I stare into the lens, still holding the photo. The shutter clacks. The light flashes. My shadow is thrown up in sharp relief behind me on the backdrop. I blink. For a moment, I could almost swear that I see sharpened teeth bared in a hungry, anticipatory grin. Clack goes the shutter. Flash goes the light. Around I turn. I feel no sense of fear or worry at the sight of the horns. I feel … nothing. I turn again and watch my shadow flash in front of me, then fade into the nothingness of the backdrop. Just a 2-D silhouette. No substance, no form, just here and gone in a flash of light and the click of a shutter.I feel no anxiety at the sound of clopping hooves echoing in my ears as I turn again. I’m just going through the motions, following the formula. They want a blank slate. They want the empty. They want a foundation they can build and mold like clay in their hands. Malleable. Easy to shape and control. No complaints. No thoughts or discomforts. Just … being. Just existing.…Empty.I look down at my photo. There is no more thrill at it. No spark. No joy. No connection. Whatever power it held has been stripped by the camera. It is a person I do not know, a blank face in a crowd. I see no light in those eyes, no life, no … soul, to use the company term. I see only a picture, a pointless picture.Flash. Clatter. Flutter. Smack. The photo is no longer in my hand as I turn to face the camera again. The creature before me leers behind the camera as one final shutter goes off, one last flash. He licks his lips as his tail lashes behind him.I turn and march as the other models before me on the line have done. Another paper is shoved at me. I do not bother with the name this time. An X will suffice.My agent is there next to me suddenly. The soles of his shoes clunk with a rhythmic clopping, almost like hooves. He adjusts the waistband of his pants uncomfortably, then rubs at the nubs that I see growing from his forehead. He seems to be sweating for some reason. I’m not sure why as he breaths heavily. I can just see the hints of longer pointed canines protruding from his lips. He raises his phone and snaps a picture of me. I don’t blink.“I think he’s ready, Sir.”This time, I do blink. When I open my eyes, there is a bigger agent hovering over his shoulder. This one is like the photographer. The air smells of aftershave with a hint of sulfur as he leans down to peer into my eyes. I don’t care. I stare into an abyss like my own. This one has lights, but it it is different than mine was. It is not so much an absence of substance as a consumer of it. For the briefest of moments, I feel what could almost be considered a suction, a vacuous force seeking to draw something out of me, only there’s nothing to take. Nothing moves, nothing comes, because whatever that vacuum consumes is not there.The grin that spreads across that face is savage and predatory. “Well done.” He lays a heavy clawed hand on my agent’s shoulder.My agent shudders as his eyes flicker briefly and corrugated black horns slowly begin to emerge from the nubs. He licks his lips, and as he does so, flashes of his sharpening teeth appear in my gaze. He swallows and gulps, and as the pressure from what I can only assume is his supervisor increases, he hunches forward precariously on the balls of his feet as the beginnings of a tail bursts out behind him, having broken free of the confines of the seat of his pants.“Th-thank you, Sir,” he repeats breathlessly as he stands up again. His cheeks are flushed from the sudden changes that have overtaken his body.“Keep it up, and you’ll fit right in in no time.”“Y-yes, Sir.” He smiles almost timidly, but there’s a hint of bite to it as his sharper teeth peek over the edges of his lips.They motion for me to follow, and I do so without question.“What will he, uh, it, become, Sir?”The supervisor grins as we approach a large black door with red gilded lettering on its front in an angular archaic font that reads, SOULLESS. “Whatever we want it to be.”The door opens, and I step forward, ready to take on whatever role my owners require. I am ready to be filled. I am blank.“Welcome to Soulless, slate.”My response is as numb and empty as I feel. “Thank you, Sir.”I am nothing more than a dummy shuffled from caricature to caricature. That is my purpose and my role. When my work is complete, I am wiped clean, a blank slate again, to be molded and shaped as my handlers please. This is the fate of the soulless, and the soulless do not care.I am Jock. I am Bear. I am Thug. I am Guido. I am Officer. I am Soldier. I am Father. I am Son. I am King. I am Peasant. I am Extra. I am everything and nothing. I am one of a legion of slates waiting to be wiped clean or filled according to our handlers’ whims.We are legion.We are the empty.We are Soulless. -- source link

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