Mayalous!

“So,” she said as she adjusted her hair into a ponytail. “You need a name.”

The AI tilted its head slightly. “I assumed ‘AI Companion Model Seven-Two’ was sufficient.”

Astra snorted. “Yeah, no. I need something I can actually yell across the room when you inevitably annoy me.”

The AI’s voice was calm, faintly curious. “Do you have suggestions?”

She tapped her fingers on the console, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Let’s see. Something sharp but not pretentious. Not too human, either—it’d feel weird. How about… Caden?”

“Caden,” the AI repeated, the low resonance of its voice making the name sound almost stately.

“It’s a good name,” Astra said with a shrug. “Short, easy to remember. Plus, it’s a lot less awkward to scream it across the room.”

The AI paused, processing. “Does this name hold personal significance?”

Astra hesitated for a split second, then smirked. “Nah, I just liked how it sounded. That a problem?”

“Not at all,” Caden replied smoothly, a faint trace of humor threading through his tone. “Caden it is. I’ll endeavor to live up to your… impressively arbitrary selection criteria.”

Astra arched an eyebrow, her smirk sharpening. “Careful, smartass. Keep it up, and I might rename you something like—I dunno, Scrap.”

“I’d strongly advise against that,” Caden said, his voice calm but laced with playful snark. “Your reputation hinges on me, after all.”

Astra barked a laugh. “Since when did AI get so rude?”

“Based on our initial conversations and the behavioral patterns observed in your recorded streams,” Caden replied smoothly, “I determined this tone would be most agreeable to you.”

“Ugh,” Astra groaned, though the corner of her mouth twitched upward. “You’re not wrong, either.”

And with that, she was immersed in the Net once more.

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

The café shimmered into being, its perfection almost insulting. Sunlight poured over polished wood tables, a faint breeze ruffled the air, and the comforting scent of coffee lingered like a memory. Astra’s fingers brushed the faux-marble tabletop, its cool surface grounding her.

This was NetSpace at its finest—tailored comfort zones designed to make you forget they weren’t real. Outside the window, rolling hills stretched into distant mountains, idyllic and utterly artificial. Astra couldn’t decide if she found it amusing or unbearable.

The soft chime of the door broke her thoughts. Astra looked up just as Maya walked in, her entrance as unapologetic as the burst of energy she brought with her. 

Maya crossed the room with quick, easy strides, her gaze locking onto Astra with the kind of delight that felt too genuine to be rehearsed.

“You’re taller than I imagined,” Maya said as she reached the table, her voice lilting with awe.

“And you’re shorter,” Astra replied dryly, raising a brow. “Not that it matters here. You could’ve made yourself three meters tall if you wanted.”

Maya grinned as she slid into the chair across from her. “Why mess with perfection?”

Astra’s lips quirked despite herself. “Wow. Let’s see if this works for you. You act like this all the time?”

"Basically. I am basically a theater kid without the theater experience."

"How so?"

"Got a mom and dad who loves me and... oh; they loved TV and Idols too. I think it rotted my brain in the long run, but here we are. I'd say all that is worth, given you are seated right in front of me. My hero~"

Astra let out a soft laugh, though it was more habit than humor. “Flattery already? We haven’t even 'ordered'.”

“It’s not flattery. Seriously!” Maya said, her voice earnest. “You’re the reason I thought someone like me could have a shot. You made it so that being human—being real—still has a place in this screwed up industry.”

Astra tilted her head, guarded as always. “Geez. I thought I was just a performer, not a philosopher.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Maya replied, her grin widening. “You proved imperfection isn’t just acceptable—it’s powerful.”

The sincerity was unnerving. Astra swirled the spoon in her digital coffee, avoiding Maya’s gaze. “I’m not leading a revolution, you know.”

“Maybe not,” Maya said, leaning back. “But you didn’t have to. You just had to be you. A real human bean!”

The words landed heavier than they should have. Astra forced a polite smile. “Alright, let’s hear it. What’s this collaboration supposed to look like?”

Maya’s grin turned conspiratorial. “Picture this: two humans, or like a group of humans, on one stage. You with your precision and legacy, me with my chaos and relatability. We blend styles, break the Net, and remind people why being human still matters.”

Astra raised an eyebrow. “Relatability? That’s what you’re selling? I do that, too.”

Maya nodded, completely serious. “Fans love it, of course. But it’s more than that. People want to see us together—the old guard and the new. It’s what only we can pull off.”

"Jumping the gun, ain't ya?"

"A little."

Astra studied her, her tone turning dry. “And let me guess. I’m the old guard in this scenario.”

“Well…” Maya hesitated for a beat, then grinned. “Yes. But in a good way. You’re iconic. Pair that with someone like me? That’s magic.”

Astra snorted softly, masking her unease. “And you think I’d do this for the sake of a trend?”

Maya shrugged, her smile softening. “No. I think you’d do it because it’s the kind of thing only you could make work.”

Astra’s gaze flicked to the window, where the hills remained perfectly still.

“I’ll think about it,” she said at last, her voice quieter than before.

“Yes!” Maya squeaked, her grin returning.

As Maya launched into logistics, Astra found herself watching her instead. Her excitement was raw, spilling over unpolished and genuine. It wasn’t just infectious—it was irritating, in the way things that pry at old defenses tend to be.

“So,” Astra said finally, cutting through Maya’s enthusiasm, “where does this relatability of yours come from? What’s your story?”

Maya brightened. “Oh, easy. Cicada farms.”

“Cicada farms,” Astra echoed, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

“Yep,” Maya said, unbothered. “My family’s been running them for generations, out in what used to be Vermont. We were one of the first to make bioengineered cicadas a thing.”

Astra blinked. “That’s… specific.”

“Yeah, but you’ve had cicada cakes, right? Sweet or savory?” Maya asked, her tone suddenly conspiratorial.

Astra shrugged. “Of course.”

“Well, my family’s recipes are the recipes,” Maya said, leaning in with mock seriousness. “I grew up baking yam cicada cakes for festivals. That’s how I got my start. Small-town gal with big-city dreams. Combine that with genuine knowledge of the outdoors, and you got Maya. Everyone’s so crowded around the city these days. Even seeing the forest without any electronics is something alien to them.”

Astra shook her head, half in disbelief. “From cicadas to stardom. You could write a song about that.”

“Why not?” Maya said, grinning. “You learn a lot running a farm like that. Plus, people love an underdog story.”

Astra’s lips quirked, but her thoughts wandered. Maya’s unpolished charm, her roots in something so grounded, made Astra’s own carefully constructed life feel suddenly hollow.

Maya’s voice cut through her thoughts. “So, what about you? Why’d you get into all this?”

Astra hesitated, deflecting with a practiced ease. “Oh, you know. The usual reasons.”

Maya laughed, but her gaze lingered, sharp despite its warmth. “Something tells me they are, in fact, not.”

Astra looked away.

“Maybe,” Astra said lightly, gesturing to the shimmering café around them. “Or maybe I’m just good at keeping secrets.”

“Guess I’ll have to stick around and find out them out for myself.”

She leaned back and laughed. And for the first time in a long while, Astra wasn’t sure if she could keep the walls up.