Cyberpunk often seduces with its neon noir visuals and brooding protagonists—but underneath the cybernetic limbs and neon reflections lies a question that’s far more human than most people expect: what is the cost of identity in a world that commodifies the body, tracks your every move, and monetizes your face? In the genre’s deeper currents, identity is not just a philosophical abstraction. It is something traded, reprogrammed, auctioned off, and sometimes—erased.
And yet, in contrast to this rich complexity, cyberpunk’s presence on platforms like Facebook is littered with a shallow, often cringe-worthy vision of the future: oversexualized AI avatars, synthetic women posing with guns, impossibly proportioned androids dipped in latex. These images feel less like a critique of dystopia and more like a wish-fulfillment fantasy cooked up by adolescent minds and creepy adults with disposable income. The idea that the future will exaggerate these forms into dominance is, frankly, wishful thinking. It isn’t rooted in realism. It’s a nostalgic commodification of sex appeal with none of the grimy nuance or consequence that makes cyberpunk compelling in the first place.
Let’s be clear: body augmentation will absolutely be part of the future. But the idea that it will lead to universally hot, hyper-sexualized post-humans walking around in sleek chrome with perfectly tuned curves is more likely to be the domain of black-market pleasure domes, ultra-rich elites, and fantasy brochures. Not the average citizen. Most won’t be able to afford full-body mods. And those who can might not even want them—not because the technology won’t exist, but because in a world of constant surveillance, instability, and systemic decay, standing out is a life-or-death risk… a liability.
The body of the future is less bombshell and more blur. As described in a previous article, the evolution of cyberpunk silhouettes will lean heavily into androgyny—not out of ideology, but necessity. A nondescript, slender, genderless body is harder to identify, harder to categorize, and easier to disappear. Beauty doesn’t just fade—it becomes dangerous. The further into dystopia society falls, the more identity becomes a weapon. An eye-catching appearance might be good for a brand, but for the average cyberpunk, it’s an invitation to be targeted, followed, trafficked, or killed.
Fashion in this setting is not about aesthetics—it’s about function. Or subversion. Or camouflage. You’ll see clothing inspired by infrared scrambling, privacy wear, and encrypted fabrics. The clubs and alleyways of a dying city aren’t catwalks. Big men are gunned down first. Beautiful women vanish in cargo trucks. And rich-looking kids? They don’t survive the night without an entourage.
Media depictions of cyberpunk can’t quite decide how to handle this. Blade Runner captured it well—Rachel was beautiful, but she was bait. She was built to be alluring and memorable, and that made her expendable. In Ghost in the Shell, Major Kusanagi’s body is hyper-feminized, yet that femininity is irrelevant to her function. Her physicality is a shell, a prosthetic that (surprise!) gets replaced. In Akira, bodies morph and explode—not into sexy machines, but into monstrous expressions of uncontrolled power. Altered Carbon swings wildly between smart and sensational, showcasing both the asset-value of form and the commodification of flesh. Blame! nearly erases gender from the equation entirely, with characters built more for tone than titillation. The Matrix flirted with leather and identity, while Edgerunners offered a glimpse at the grim trade-offs of aesthetic modding—but still couldn’t help but pander.
So what are we left with? A genre that keeps orbiting around sex and spectacle but only occasionally lands on the uncomfortable truth: that in a real cyberpunk future, appearance is either a weapon or a weakness. There is no room for vanity when your image can be replicated, traced, and used to sell someone else’s version of you. Sex appeal, as a survival strategy, has diminishing returns. You might gain a few credits or contracts, but at the cost of visibility—and in a world ruled by algorithms and biometric targeting, visibility is death.
In this light, cyberpunk’s real future lies not in prescient image-based obituaries of latex-clad androids but in the mundane, matte-gray uniformity of people trying to stay invisible. The power fantasy of augmented flesh will still exist—just behind VIP doors, on rarefied subscription feeds, and inside AI-generated sims. For everyone else, beauty will be reserved for marketing. Just another commodity trickling down to the lowest economic caste through ads and influencers.
This isn’t to say the genre has to be puritanical or devoid of allure. But the idea of identity—real, dangerous, traded identity—deserves more respect than what the algorithmic sludge of social media has turned it into. The price of identity isn’t paid in chrome or curves. It’s paid in privacy, safety, and selfhood.
If cyberpunk has always been a warning, then let this be part of it: the body is a battleground. And the more beautiful, desirable, or unique it is—the more likely it is to be stolen, sold, or used against you.
