fuck y'all i'm bringing back seapunk and making it more cybergoth
introducing
CYBERMARINE
black with neon greens and blues and iridescent holographics. aquatic frutiger aero and frutiger dark transparent bubble plastic accessories. plastic fishing lure and sea shell jewellery. fishnet scarfs. glowing neon fishbone imagery. subnautica and thalassophobia imagery. sunken spacejunk that crashed into the ocean. cyberlocks and dreads that look like kelp and jellyfish tentacles. pirates in holographic overcoats adorned with chains. eyepatches replaced with cybernetic eyes and plexiglass visors. crystalline daggers mined from geodes at the bottom of the deepest volcanic vents where bubbles spew out methane gasses.
minecraft ocean monuments and prismarine. bioluminescent mariana trench creatures with alien limbs and phalangal jaws that ooze toxic sludge, more alien than the stars obscured by noxious gas cloud storms drifting from the horizon, where abandoned dystopian oil rigs have been seized by pirates amidst floating barges of drifting plastic, firing laser cannons at oncoming naval fleets. beware the submerged spikey ball and chain landmines fifteen nautical miles from the scrapper's sunken submarine, built from the remains of a plane crash on a bizzare tropical island where the jungle oasis looks too good to be true, until you begin to notice the trees detach their foot and crawl to the next tidepool like squirming anenomes. the albatross follow you like drones. we have to go back to the island.
ecco the dolphin's darker lore is murmured in hushed whispers by amphibian cetacean creatures that look like the hylotl from starbound. iguanafolk punks pierce their dewlaps with fishing hooks. abalone shells engraved with strange soldered metallic runes power a sunken city nestled amidst the coral, where great pillars and aquaducts are carved from the bones of leviathan beasts. the venomous spines of poisonous fish are wound tightly around long spear shafts with discarded fishing line. salt corrodes rusting metal.
steel drums and conch shells play hypnotic, clanging psychedelic aggrotech beats to the rhythmic ping of sonar, interwoven with alien whalesong. slices of nautilus steak fritters are served on a millionaire's private yacht, downed with tropical cocktails that glow in vibrant neon colours. seaglass is artfully melted onto a discarded bottle, the message for help long forgotten as someone in a binary-code print hawaiian shirt takes another bong rip of a hybrid strain of seaweed called something like "magenta clownfish" and sings a drunken shanty about the man who claims to have fought cthulu with a plasma-charged harpoon. a lobsterbot crawls over his shoulder with chrome chitinous plates and beeps with blinking LED lights. treasure planet. 42 wallaby way sydney is a myth as old as atlantis, submerged in the shifting sands.
do you all sea my vision
