Dealing With...

The lights dimmed, leaving Astra standing in the half-shadow of the digital stage, Astra’s projection fading from the arena with a low hum.

Across from her, Raine’s score glowed steady and high—a flawless series of digits, precise and unimpeachable.

Astra’s own score shimmered beside it, close, painfully close, but just short enough to confirm what she already felt. She fought to keep her face neutral, ignoring the slight prickling in her chest as the crowd’s murmur grew louder. 

Her jaw was tight, watching Raine dip in a graceful bow to the applauding audience.

During the annual Eclipsend Ascend contest, it was almost always transhuman against transhuman. Humans rarely entered the fray anymore; the odds were stacked too high against them. The equipment to merge into NetSpace were simply too expensive, and not to mention transhumans had a home advantage.

The new generation of transhuman idols understood showmanship in spades—perfected it, even—but what they couldn’t grasp was the human condition. How could they? Most of them had never walked on Earth’s soil, never felt its grit under their feet, never inhaled its air unfiltered. 

She took one last look at the glittering scoreboards before the scene dissolved, pixels dissipating into darkness.

HOTWIRED! HOTWIRED! HOTWIRED! HOTWIRED! HOTWIRED! HOTWIRED! HOTWIRED!

Outside her work, outside the confines of the Net, Astra was Lena. And Lena was very pissed.

“Coffee,” she muttered into the silence, her voice thick with fatigue. “Flat white, two Splendas.”

The house’s virtual intelligence responded with a cheerful tone. The kitchen lights warmed to life, and a faint hum filled the room as the machine began its ritual grind and brew.

She moved closer to the glass wall that made up the entire east side of her condo, leaning her forehead against the cool surface.

Outside, the city sprawled below her in a blend of greens and metallics. Towers of pale stone rose high, their tops wrapped in solar panels and vertical gardens that shimmered under the morning sun.

Vines climbed the edges of buildings, blending with sharp, brutalist angles into a seamless whole, a strange union of concrete and plant life that reached skyward like industrial trees.

Far below, smaller structures dotted the streets, their rooftops an unbroken sea of solar panels and dense vegetation, creating an ecosystem contained within glass and steel.

Streams flowed along the edges of the streets, fed by carefully engineered rain catchments, every piece designed to mimic the natural systems before the Big Scorch hit early. Good thing humanity was the master of her own fate, by now.

Lena’s gaze flicked upward, toward the sky—a rich, unnaturally bright blue stretched above, hazy with the wisps of high-altitude traffic drones drifting along invisible routes.

Somewhere below, pedestrians strolled along the eco-walks, humans and digital proxies alike, part of the new world harmony the government touted in every press release.

A phantom echo of the stage still clung to her fingertips. 

The room felt too still, too clinical—polished glass, muted tones, and a single faint glow from the digital feed she hadn’t yet turned off.

She stared at the numbers again.

Raine’s score was immaculate, like everything about her. Raine wasn’t just a performer; she was a transhuman honed by years in the Net. Her movements weren’t bound by the clumsiness of organic bodies. Every note, every step, every breath—if she even needed to breathe—flowed seamlessly.

And she told a story.

Lena leaned back against the couch, her head tipping against the smooth surface as she closed her eyes. Lena had always thought her humanity gave her the edge.

She had leaned into her flaws, her imperfections, letting them shape her performances into something raw and real. She let herself stumble, falter, fall—only to rise again. It made people feel like she was one of them, that she understood what it meant to struggle, to claw her way forward even in this body. It was hypnotic. 

But Raine’s story wasn’t robotic.

She opened her eyes, staring at the faint reflection of herself in the glass wall. The treatments, the upkeep—it was constant, relentless. 

Her work friends had been the first to go.

She could still hear their voices, light and reassuring, urging her to join them. They promised she wouldn’t lose herself, that the Net would amplify her creativity, her vision. 

But she hadn’t gone. She stayed.

She glanced at the feed again, watching the replay of her own performance. Felt the urge to watch once more before stopping herself.

She let out a sharp breath, sitting forward, her elbows resting on her knees. Her reflection in the glass shifted, and for a moment, she thought she saw something older staring back at her. She touched her face, her fingers brushing the faint lines at the corners of her eyes.

This body, this human body, was wearing thin.

Her gaze flicked back to the faint glow of the feed, her expression sharpening. Losing wasn’t the end. It never had been. She’d built her career on imperfection striving to become perfection, on clawing her way forward when everything else screamed for her to stop.

So she would bounce back. She would refine, adjust, adapt.

The faint clink of ceramic roused her from her thoughts. The coffee sat waiting, dark and aromatic. She took a sip, feeling the warmth settle as she closed her eyes, letting herself hold onto that small, grounding moment.

Yes, she was going to be fine. After all, brand deals in the works have been slowly coming into fruition. 

"Open my e-mails. Dim the holo-windows and project them."

"As you wish."

The words on the screen blurred together, each vying for her attention.

The header of one caught her eye:

Subject Line: “Excited to Welcome Astra to Zenith House!”

Sender: Zenith Talent Management.

The sleek holo-email unfolded, displaying vibrant images of polished idols against futuristic, shimmering backdrops.

“We were thrilled by your recent performance at the showcase. Your authenticity resonates deeply with the direction Zenith House is taking. We are interested in discussing further details with regards with your involvement with us at a later date.”

Zenith House. The name carried weight—an idol collective known for their groundbreaking content. Their members weren’t just performers; they were brands, each carefully cultivated for maximum impact. Being part of Zenith was a status symbol, a promise of relevance and longevity.

Another email pinged, the notification cutting sharply through the air.

Subject Line: “Potential Collaboration: Astra x Apex House.”

Sender: Apex House PR.

She clicked it open, skimming quickly.

“Astra represents a rare balance of relatability and innovation. We’d love to discuss a joint project where you collaborate with other Apex members, showcasing a day in the life of an idol in the modern era. Think of it as a cross-platform phenomenon.”

Lena exhaled, the tension creeping into her shoulders. The words on the screen sounded impressive, but she knew what they really wanted: access.

Both Zenith and Apex were massive networks, but joining one meant opening herself up completely—her brand, her image, her privacy. They wanted Astra, not Lena. Lena was not like Astra at all. If she was, she would have gone crazy decades ago. Not to mention being on one of the Big Six's shitlist was something she was not interested in. 

“Lena,” the house’s virtual intelligence chimed in, its voice a shade too pleasant, too insistent, “today is your scheduled health check-up. You’ve deferred five times. I recommend completing it for optimal wellness monitoring.”

She exhaled slowly, feeling the gentle weight of resignation press against her temples. “Not today,” she said. It was only half a decision—she had her reasons.

The months had been full, filled with rehearsals, bookings, plans that stacked themselves like cards, always on the edge of collapse if she dared step away.

“Very well,” the VI replied, without the slightest hint of judgment. She could almost see its calculations, a pattern as indifferent as it was efficient. Still holding her coffee, Lena turned back to the expanse outside, looking through the layers of glass and energy-efficient tinting, feeling the strange detachment that lingered after each performance, a sense of falling back into herself from the digital realm.

“Project the feed,” she instructed. She could feel the slight resistance in her voice—losses weren’t anything new, but there was something bitter about losing to Raine, especially when her performance had been so mechanical, meeting the criteria in the way a finely-tuned machine would. The holographic display materialized, a projection filling the center of the room, casting a faint glow against the steel and glass surroundings.

The screen buzzed to life, streams of comments cascading over it, small, translucent lines that painted the reaction in layers of bold, muted tones. Most comments scrolled by quickly, reactions to the competition, notes on Astra’s performance, mixed reviews, so on and so forth... 

And...

“Astra’s different, yeah, but Raine’s just… sharper.”

Welllll...

“Honestly, Astra’s moves feel more real, like there’s something there, but Raine’s perfect. Hard to top that.”

Not the prettiest results. 

She reckoned if she was any younger, she would have thought her career was done for good. Being her age, she felt she was allowed a little more grace.

Grace didn't make up for the blemish on her brand.

Lena watched them roll by, letting each sink in, part of her absorbing the feedback as objectively as she could, the other part resistant to the verdict. Still, she could feel the frustration loosening, like a knot unravelling.

A loss was just another step. She still had time.

Her hands drifted to her face, feeling the faintest texture in the skin at her temples.

She’d paid her doctors a fortune to keep her body viable. The treatment was risky, with endless costs, but she’d never regretted the choice, even as she watched more and more colleagues transfer into the digital world, leaving behind all they’d once known in exchange for something more timeless.

The government didn’t want to sponsor the treatment either. It wasn’t humane. Right. More like another form of control.

“Projected vote count,” she requested, needing something else to focus on. The hologram shifted, displaying the results of the last global election in a wash of faint blue. The ruling party had triumphed with a three-billion-vote lead, close enough to remind everyone of how “democracy” worked in this society where hundreds of billions of digital souls held sway. The four billion physical humans left on Earth were barely a rounding error by comparison, relics in a world that increasingly preferred to leave the body behind.

More humane. A humanity without fragility, without limits, without the friction of time wearing things down.

Lena’s fingers tightened around her mug, the bitterness rising along with the familiar pang of defiance. They wanted her to be uploaded, to leave behind this body and everything it still carried, to join the ranks of the trillion digital souls stretching spanning multiple solar systems.

For a moment, the projection flickered, the comments, votes, and cascading lines of data shifting to a neutral, blank screen, the final image hovering before her eyes—a picture of Astra, her digital self, floating through a pixel-perfect backdrop. 

She was everything they wanted, a flawless, immortal version of herself. And yet...

With a quiet determination, Lena shut off the projection, letting the room sink back into its sterile calm. She took one last sip of coffee, feeling the heat slip down her throat, grounding her.

Maybe she should go see the doctor.