The machine whirred noisily in the background of the room. She tried to pretend that it wasn't there, but that would have been impossible. The guests, certainly, could not ignore its presence, as it was entirely noticeable. *She* might ignore the lines of the IVs that wove their way across the room and buried themselves in her veins, the steady mechanical hiss of the iron lung that did her breathing for her, the medicinal reek--to tell the truth, she couldn't smell it any more, though she knew that others could--but her guests, not having had two hundred years to accustom themselves to the spectacle that was her very existence, could not. That was the point. She had used enough power behind the scenes; it was time for these ingrates to see just what it was that she truly had become, to understand just how far removed from their petty humanity she was. Above them, in the ceiling, hundreds of images flickered in continuous replay--

Inspiration: My Roomba whirring in the background.
Story Potential: High.
Notes: hmm.