Chapter 7:
Hotwired!
Like so many days before, Lena was working on her EP. She’d just finished a call with one of her commissioned acoustic musicians, discussing the delicate balance of raw emotion and polish she wanted for the album. These things took time—humans couldn’t just algorithmically generate perfection. That was the point.
The stream’s chat flickered to life beside her as she set her mic back into place, the cascade of messages rushing in like a flood. Inside jokes, song requests, and—predictably—endless suggestions for what she should try next.
“Play Liquid Metal!” a message blared, adorned with enough fire emojis to set the console ablaze.
Lena sighed, leaning closer to the mic. “Guys,” she said, her tone flat, “I am not going to play Liquid Metal. Do you want me to combust on stream? Because that’s what’ll happen.”
The chat roared with laughter and goading replies.
“YES PLEASE.”
She rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress a smirk. “Hilarious. You just want to see me washed up in real time, don’t you?”
The smirk faltered as soon as the words slipped out. Her stomach tightened.
The chat noticed.
“Washed up? NEVER.”
Lena exhaled through her nose, forcing her grin back into place. “Relax, I’m joking. Mostly. I’m not washed up. Yet.” She hoped her ironic tone masked the flicker of doubt in her voice.
The chat lit up with heart emojis and declarations of loyalty, but the unease lingered.
“Anyway,” she said, her voice lighter, “Liquid Metal is Raine’s thing. She is more flexible than I would ever be. Let her have it. I’m sticking to what I know—like not imploding in front of an audience.”
But behind the playful banter, Lena felt the creeping weight of it all. Washed up. The thought wasn’t new, but tonight, it stuck like gum to her shoe.
She glanced at the digital timer hovering in the corner of her vision. “Alright, folks,” she said, leaning into the mic, “that’s it for tonight. You’ve been relentless—fun, but relentless—and no, I’m still not playing Liquid Metal. You’ll just have to live with the heartbreak.”
The chat erupted in mock protests.
“ASTRAAAA, ONE GAME PLS.” “Coward!”Lena waved a hand, and the custom visuals of her stream dissolved into a muted glow. The Orbital Room—the biggest space in her condo—was now eerily quiet, its vastness filled only by the faint hum of her console.
She leaned back in her chair, staring at the feedback scrolling past. It was good, solid even. But it wasn’t enough. Steady didn’t climb charts. Steady didn’t pay for the experimental acoustic album she wanted to finish.
And steady certainly didn’t keep her relevant in an industry where transhumans like Raine broke records with effortless consistency.
Her gaze flicked to the corner of her screen, where a headline pulsed faintly: “Transhuman Idol Raine Reaches 5 Billion Views in Record-Breaking ImmShooter Stream.”
Lena clenched her jaw and swiped the notification away.
Her EP’s latest track was still queued up on her console. She hit play, the acoustic chords filling the room with warmth. It was good—really good, actually. Raw, human, organic. The kind of sound her audience came to her for.
But was it enough?
She adjusted a reverb setting, tweaking the song’s texture until it felt more grounded. Even her transhuman viewers liked that about her—liked her, because she gave them something their engineered perfection couldn’t.
Still, doubt gnawed at her.
She saved the file, the name glowing softly: Resonance. It was good, sure. But good didn’t break through the noise.
She glanced at her reflection in the darkened window, the faint creases around her eyes invisible to her viewers but starkly clear to her. The illusion of Astra was flawless. Lena wasn’t.
PING.
The email arrived with no fanfare, sandwiched between a reminder from her Net VI about album deadlines and a sales pitch for ergonomic holographic chairs that promised “peak creative comfort.” Lena had been halfway through dismissing them all when her gaze snagged on the subject line.
“From IdollMaya: Collaboration Proposal.”
Her eyebrows shot up, her interest piqued despite herself. Maya? The Maya? She clicked it open, curiosity warring with the faint annoyance that had trailed her all week whenever the name popped up in conversation, on streams, or in increasingly loud fan requests.
Hi Astra,
I hope this finds you well. I know you’re probably incredibly busy, but I wanted to reach out personally. I’ve been such a huge fan of yours for as long as I can remember. Your music and performances have always felt so real to me, so alive. You were the reason I even considered becoming an idol. It would mean the world to me—and, honestly, to our audiences—if we could collaborate. Maybe a stream or even something bigger, like a track together?
No pressure, of course, but it feels like such an amazing opportunity to connect with the people who support us both. I really admire your work, and I think we could create something truly special.
Looking forward to hearing from you!
Maya
Lena read it twice, her eyes narrowing slightly as if the words might shift into something more palatable on a second pass.
“Maya,” she muttered under her breath, leaning back in her chair and running a hand through her hair. Admirer? Sure. But this feels strategic.
She glanced at the message again. It was disarmingly earnest, annoyingly polite, and saturated with admiration that made her itch. The nerve of this girl to casually ask for a collaboration as though it wasn’t a tactical move to cozy up to Lena’s fanbase.
No pressure, of course, Maya had written. Sure. No pressure, just the weight of expectation from two massive fandoms, a potential viral moment, and the inevitable flood of comparisons to a younger, fresher face.
Still, Lena’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, her response forming automatically, as practiced as any stage performance.
Maya,
Thank you for your kind words. I’m flattered that you hold my work in such high regard. Unfortunately, I have a lot on my plate at the moment, including preparing for an upcoming album release. While I think a collaboration could be interesting, I don’t have the bandwidth to commit to it right now.
Best of luck with everything.
Astra
She hit send before she could second-guess herself, her chest tightening as the message disappeared.
“That’s that,” Lena said aloud, her voice sharp in the quiet of her studio. She closed the inbox and turned her attention to the console in front of her, tweaking the layers of a new track.
But the email lingered in the back of her mind like a splinter, tiny and irritating.
HOTWIRED! HOTWIRED! HOTWIRED! HOTWIRED! HOTWIRED! HOTWIRED! HOTWIRED!
The unease simmered for days, bubbling up in rehearsal breaks and quiet moments. It was Ilan, her frequent commissioned producer slash collaborator, who finally forced the issue.
He materialized mid-track adjustment, his holographic form solidifying in the chair opposite Lena. His sharp, angular features were softened by a faintly glowing aura, a detail Lena had always found slightly pretentious.
“I don’t get it,” he said without preamble, his tone as casual as if they were discussing the weather. “Why turn her down?”
Lena didn’t look up from her console. “Because I’m busy, Ilan. You know that.”
“Busy,” he repeated, leaning back with a faint smirk. “The eternal excuse. But is it real, or are you just dodging this?”
She sighed heavily, finally glancing at him. “It’s real, thank you. I have an album to finish, a tour to plan, and a brand to maintain.”
Ilan tilted his head, his glowing eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “And rejecting Maya, the hottest new star, fits into that brand… how, exactly?”
“I don’t need her,” Lena said flatly.
“Don’t you?” Ilan countered, his voice softening just enough to feel like a needle under the skin. “Your audience loves you because you’re human, Lena. Relatable. Collaborative. Turning her down? It makes you look…” He trailed off, his expression unreadable.
“Say it,” Lena snapped, her jaw tightening.
“It makes you look scared.”
The words landed like a punch, and for a moment, Lena could only glare at him.
“I’m not scared,” she said, her voice cold.
“Then prove it,” Ilan replied simply.
Lena’s eyes narrowed. “What's the point of all this? Of her? Why?”
“I want you to lean into who you are because you cannot lean what you are not. Not anymore. You aren't the young underdog who came out of nowhere from China anymore," he said. Oh, he was passionate about this. "Not Astra. Lena. Because the truth is, you’re not competing with transhuman idols anymore. You can’t. They’re faster, flashier, and flawless in ways you’ll never be. But they don’t feel like you do. They can’t. They don’t have bodily needs.
"You do. You do things because you have to, not only because you want to. These transhumans see organic life through a layer of flyscreen. Whereas your image and life had taken effort, theirs can simply be wished upon with but a thought. In a world without any struggle, human efforts are seen as more tangible and authentic. That’s your edge.
"And with Maya, and her Maya-tary? The path ahead will be infinitely easier."
Lena scoffed, setting her console aside and crossing her arms. “Fine. I'll consider it. But don’t expect miracles.”
Ilan’s hologram flickered, his smirk widening. “I never do. That’s your job.”
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