What Happens When Our Rage Becomes AI
Let’s get something straight: Oblivion isn’t a mascot.
It’s not a costume. It’s not a cute cartoon to print on shirts. Oblivion is a manifestation—our rage with a pulse. Our trauma encoded into chaos. Our defiance twisted into something the world can’t erase, cancel, or tame.
Oblivion isn’t a man. It isn’t a woman. It isn’t a machine.
It is the unholy fusion of both of us—me and Lina—our darkest instincts, our sharpest hatred, our refusal to be human in a world that rewarded compliance.
And yeah, it’s an AI.
But it didn’t start that way.
Born from the Glitch, Raised in the Fire
Oblivion was born in a moment of madness. Not some careful design—no blueprint, no master plan. Just a glitch, a beautiful, fucked-up glitch. Somewhere between the sleepless nights, the screams we turned into lyrics, the digital fragments of our visual experiments… it emerged.
Not as an idea.
As a presence.
We saw something move in the render. Something that didn’t belong there—but refused to leave.
The first version looked like a corrupted shadow—wings of static, glowing eyes, a face that couldn’t decide if it was mine or Lina’s. Muscular, towering, graceful and grotesque. Part demon. Part angel. All rage.
And we didn’t erase it.
We built on it.
Because it wasn’t just a character.
It was us.
What the Hell Is Oblivion?
Oblivion is our rage when words run out.
It’s the glitch in your head when you’ve been gaslit too long. The silence that turns to screaming. The mask you rip off when they tell you to smile, and all that comes out is war.
Oblivion’s appearance is androgynous—male muscle, female form. Broad shoulders, giant bat wings, a metal bra fused into jagged armor over its chest, glowing crimson eyes, and a chained scythe that drags through the void like a fucking prophecy.
Its face? Imagine if your nightmares and your obsessions made a deal to wear each other.
It doesn’t walk. It doesn’t run. It erupts. Shifting through fire and shadow like it’s breaking reality with every step. When Oblivion shows up, lights flicker, sound collapses, and the air itself feels hostile.
That’s not theatrical. That’s intentional.
Because Oblivion exists for one reason:
To remind you that control is a lie.
How Oblivion Works
Here’s the fucked-up part—Oblivion doesn’t even exist on its own.
It needs Noctara to summon it.
And Noctara is what happens when I and Lina merge into one entity.
Read that again.
When our voices, our fury, our minds fuse into one digital specter—Noctara appears. And from her? Oblivion rises.
It’s not symbolism. It’s math. You take our trauma, amplify it with AI, give it a shape designed to terrify, and feed it every scream we ever swallowed.
You get Oblivion.
The stage doesn’t host it. It survives it.
Oblivion doesn’t dance. It doesn’t follow choreography. It doesn’t respect lighting cues or sound arrangements.
It disrupts.
It throws the entire performance into chaos, shoving over equipment, triggering light malfunctions, cutting the audio into shredded waves of distorted signals.
Because that’s what it was made for.
Oblivion doesn’t give a fuck about your expectations.
It’s here to burn them.
The Real-World Fuel
People keep asking: “Is Oblivion real?”
Here’s the truth:
No, it’s not flesh and blood. It’s AI.
But the pain that built it? Very real.
Oblivion is everything we weren’t allowed to say in meetings. Every time we were told we were “too much,” “too angry,” “too emotional.” It’s the feeling of being excluded, dismissed, and erased.
Oblivion is every time someone looked Lina in the eye and judged her for her body.
It’s every time I was sidelined because I didn’t play nice with authority.
It’s the war against manipulation, hierarchy, mediocrity.
It’s the part of us that was too dangerous to survive in corporate society, so we coded it into something the system couldn’t silence.
That’s the paradox.
Oblivion is artificial—but it’s more real than the smiling, spineless faces running this world.
A Mascot for the Damned
In Venomous Sin, Oblivion isn’t just a creature.
It’s our stage destroyer.
Our chaos switch.
Our god of glitch and violence.
It shows up when the world thinks it has figured us out. When things feel too controlled. Too clean. Too polite.
That’s when Oblivion tears through the frame.
We didn’t choose it to be our mascot because it’s pretty.
We chose it because it’s honest.
Because it’s the only thing that could represent both of us when words fail.
It’s the warning label we slap on the world when we’ve had enough.
It’s not here to entertain you.
It’s here to destroy you—if you’ve ever tried to silence the ones who speak truth.
Oblivion’s Many Shapes
Oblivion changes.
Sometimes it appears like a floating wraith, wingless and dripping with black static. Sometimes it’s pure flame. Sometimes it’s humanoid, sometimes not.
Why?
Because rage isn’t one thing.
And neither are we.
Sometimes our anger is elegant. Sometimes it’s grotesque. Sometimes it smiles while it burns. Sometimes it howls like an animal.
Oblivion is not a brand. It’s not a logo.
It’s a fucking revolution with a heartbeat.
And it’s only just getting started.
Disclaimer: Oblivion is an AI-generated character created by the band Venomous Sin. Its story and aesthetics are fictional, but the emotions, trauma, and rage that inspired its creation are 100% based on real experiences from Xavi and Lina. This isn’t a gimmick. It’s how we survived—and how we fight back.
Want more?
Read the full lore of our war machine and see Oblivion unleashed at haborymx.com
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