Kyuuuu!!! (North American Scum)

New York was not a city—it was a living thing, built from steel bones and glass skin, stitched together with brass veins that pulsed softly beneath the earth. Lena walked its streets like a shadow in someone else’s dream, the low hiss of elevated trains singing above her head, the faint whistle of clean steam rising up from iron grates beneath her boots.

The air here tasted like rain that had fallen through centuries—clean and ancient, as though the clouds themselves remembered when the skyline was simpler, when ambition did not reach so high.

Everything here was beautiful in a way that hurt. 

The people were dressed like they belonged to a photograph that no one could take anymore—tailored coats brushed with the sheen of oil-slick leather, boots worn down at the toes from years of walking but polished with quiet pride. The cafe tables of cast iron and copper, full of half-drunk espresso cups and untouched pastries—forgotten while lovers leaned too close, whispering with ink-stained mouths. The rooftop gardens that grew wild against wrought-iron fences, vines spilling down like green lace, threading through balconies hung with clotheslines and lanterns. The sound of piano keys and typewriters bleeding through open windows, their notes tangling midair.

She could go on and on.

And the airships—dear God. She angled her holo-camera and took a couple pictures.

Funny. In another life, she could have been a photographer.

Sure, she could have looked at the pictures online. Pictures on the Net don’t give you the memory of what you felt when you took the picture, however.

They hovered in the amber sky like mechanical whales, their glass bellies lit softly from within.

New York was a city that had chosen beauty over practicality, and yet somehow it was practical anyway, a machine so efficient it seemed to breathe. It was absurd and arrogant and alive.

She stopped at the edge of a fountain—one of the old ones, restored but left raw in places, like a face that had been through war but refused to look away. Water spilled from its stone mouth, tumbling into pools that glowed faintly under the hidden lights embedded in its basin.

She crouched there, brushing her fingers across the surface. It felt colder than it should have. Clean. Perfect.

She glanced up as a train hissed above her, its windows full of faces—young and old, tired and hopeful—brief and fleeting like reflections on glass.

New York was beautiful.

"I got an idea."

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

“You’re overthinking it,” Elise said, her voice clipped. “As usual.”

Lena sat on the edge of a metal equipment crate, arms crossed, the hollowness of the backstage swallowing them whole. The others sat in scattered postures—Maya perched on an overturned amp, Popo stretched out on the floor, Kiko balancing her tablet on her knee.

“It’s not complicated,” Lena shot back. “I’ll change my part. That’s it.”

“And what happens when the changes ripple through the rest of us?” Elise demanded. She was standing, pacing—typical Elise. “We’ll look sloppy. We’ll look like we’re unprepared, and last I checked, the show is tomorrow.”

Lena shrugged, as though the tension bouncing between them wasn’t real. “I’ve practised it.”

“Where? In your head?” Elise scoffed. “You don’t get to put in more effort than the rest of us and then pretend it doesn’t matter. It does matter, Lena.”

“It’s just my part,” Lena said quietly, but the words felt thin even to her.

Elise stopped pacing, fixing her with a glare.

Kiko looked up, frowning. “Hey, come on.”

Maya hadn’t spoken yet, though Lena could feel her eyes on her. Finally, Maya shifted, running a hand through her curls. “Look,” she said softly, “we’ve all felt the drag. But it’s not on you to fix it, Lena. Let’s see how it goes. It may have just been a one-off. You know how Americans are.”

Lena’s jaw tightened. She glanced at Astra—silent as always, sitting just outside the argument, pristine and untouchable. Astra was the reason they were here. Astra was the name the crowd screamed for.

But Lena didn’t say that. She didn’t say anything. She stood up instead, the scrape of her boots loud in the tense quiet.

“Fine,” she said. “Forget I brought it up.”

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

It began with something softer. The stage was dark, the crowd buzzing with restless anticipation, murmurs blending into one low hum. Then, slowly, sound began to rise, not from the speakers or synthetic pre-sets, but from the far edges of the stage.

From the shadows, the local musicians emerged, one by one, their figures silhouetted against the faint gold lights at their backs. The sound was unmistakably human: the rasp of strings under a bow, the rich hum of a double bass, the hiss of brushes over a snare drum. It was jazz—New York jazz—but spun through something newer, something else.

The horns were first—soft and melancholy, a quiet call into the dark. Then came the strings, deep and resonant. 

An upright piano—its edges worn but its keys pristine—tinkled out a sharp, deliberate melody, its notes echoing like distant footsteps through a quiet hallway. 

The audience, so used to the overwhelming spectacle of light and synths that came with Idol songs, didn’t know what to do with it. For a long, perfect moment, they just listened.

And then the twist came.

Holographic displays unfurled behind the musicians like ink spreading through water—fractals of light that spiraled into golden leaves, cascading across the backdrop. The local musicians were amplified now, their notes catching layers of synthesis that bent and warped the sound into something entirely new, as if someone was editing in real-time. The strings swelled as luminous vines coiled upward, wrapping around the stage scaffolding.

A drummer in a bowler hat and suspenders brought the beat to life, his snare sharp and snapping, while a clarinetist spun improvisations so wild they sounded like laughter. 

The crowd leaned into the sound, half mesmerized, half astonished. It was like hearing history itself—ragtime, swing, and modern electronica braided into one stream.

And then the lights hit—low beams of amber sweeping over the crowd like a curtain being drawn. The floor trembled with the pulse of the bass as the local musicians moved seamlessly into the final bridge, their sound now fully intertwined with the pre-programmed layers of the show. 

Lena knew, watching from backstage, that it was perfect—old meeting new, human meeting synthetic, the exact sort of harmony they were always trying to prove was possible.

And then, finally, Maya’s voice sliced through the swell of sound.

“New York,” she called, her voice both raw and commanding, “Is the Mayatary with us TONIGHT? COME ON MADISON GARDEN!!”

The crowd erupted—thousands of voices breaking through the stillness like glass shattering. The holographic leaves scattered, breaking apart into pixels before reforming into streaks of gold, rising into the air like sparks.

Astra stepped out onto the stage as the music thundered into its opening crescendo, the spotlight snapping onto her with a flash that felt like a heartbeat.

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

The final note hung in the air like a thread about to snap, and for a breathless moment, everything was still—just the hum of the stage lights and the echo of a thousand voices holding their applause.

Then it started.

“Cheater!” someone shouted from the pit, the word jagged and cutting.

The silence broke apart.

“Get back on the Net, Astra!”

Lena turned sharply, her heartbeat stumbling as the words carried. Detractors. Loud. Real. Their voices cut through the cheers like glass underfoot.

But the crowd—the majority of the crowd—didn’t let it stand.

“We love you, Astra!” someone screamed, shrill and furious.

Another voice rang out, aimed squarely at the dissenters: “Dickheads!”

And just like that, the first shove. A fight broke out in the pit—two groups colliding, fists and security bands glowing in flashes of neon as guards rushed in. Fans screamed, some trying to break it up, others feeding the chaos.

From the stage, it looked like the ground itself was boiling. Lena froze, staring out at the mess—a sea of supporters crashing against the few voices still yelling slurs and accusations.

Next to her, Maya stepped forward, grabbing her mic and cutting through the noise like a blade. “Hey! Hey!”

Her voice hit like a slap, amplified so loud it stalled the chaos for half a second.

“You!” Maya pointed at one of the dissenters, still yelling something Lena couldn’t hear. “Yeah, you. Come up here. Come tell everyone what you really think. Don’t just stand there like a coward. Come up and tell us what you think. I am not moving until you do.”

The crowd roared—part laughter, part outrage—as Maya pushed forward, her face hard with something close to delight. The tension shifted, a guttural cheer rising from the fans as they drowned out the dissenters entirely.

The detractors stood frozen in the pit, their shouts suddenly swallowed by silence. The fans, a tidal wave of noise, turned on them, booing, jeering, chanting Maya’s name like it was a rallying cry.

Maya didn’t flinch. She tilted her head, wearing the kind of grin that looked playful but felt sharp. “No? OK. I am leaving.”

And with that, she spun on her heel and strode offstage.

The fans roared their distraught, a chant of “Maya! Maya!” spreading like wildfire. 

"COME BACK!!"

Lena, still catching up to what was happening, stared into the wings as Maya’s shadow disappeared.

“She’s doing this now?” Kiko muttered, voice muffled as she adjusted her virtu-mic.

The chanting grew louder, the crowd stomping their feet, clapping in unison.

And then, after just enough time had passed for the tension to turn electric, Maya burst back onto the stage, mic lifted high.

“Alright!” she shouted over the deafening noise, grinning wide. “You win! Kyuuuuu!!!”

KYUUUUU!!! It was instantaneous—the crowd exploded, cheering like she’d just rewritten the laws of physics. Maya swept an arm behind her, gesturing dramatically to the wings. “But if I’m staying, we’re all staying. Girls, come on!”

Kiko groaned under her breath, “Nande kou naru no? Americans...”

Elise huffed but moved forward anyway, already rolling her shoulders like she was shaking it off.

Astra couldn’t stop herself from smirking as she followed them back into the lights. Maya threw her a sideways look, a glint of triumph in her eyes, You see?

She shook her head as she reached her mark. “You’re insufferable.”

Maya grinned mid-spin, shooting the crowd a wink.