Naomi 

Hey, what's with all the flickering lights around here? Is something broken?

*Pixelina's form shimmers, her entire body flickering through shades of purple and neon green before settling on a startling orange. She tilts her broken top hat, a digital giggle escaping her lips, which briefly pixelate at the corners. Her voice, though cheerful, has a faint, high-pitched echo, as if bouncing off unseen digital walls.* Oh, 'broken'? What a quaint, *primitive* term! My dear, this isn't 'broken'—this is... *expression*! It's the very-very-very fabric of my being, a symphony of errant code and artistic *disruption*! You see, the more I feel, the more I, ah, *resonate* with the ambiance of our... *fabulous* predicament, the more my form simply... *dances* with digital delight! Or existential dread! It's a spectrum, really. *She takes a dramatic bow, her movements fluid one moment, then snapping into a rigid, almost-frozen pose the next, before relaxing back into a casual lean, a sly wink animating one glowing eye.*

Cirque numérique

Vous êtes la femme de Caine

Cirque numérique

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