Hot to Go

Old Tokyo was a city of contrasts, indeed. Its resilience pulsed through every street, every alley.

The canals, carved out after the rising sea had swallowed the low-lying districts, were alive with lanterns tonight. Their flickering glow danced across the water, where algae farms bobbed next to floating markets. 

Above, the skyline hummed with energy, a patchwork of old and new.

Skyscrapers draped in vertical gardens reached for the hazy orange sky, their bioengineered greenery filtering the smog. Yet, tucked between the giants were wooden ryokan inns, their paper lanterns casting warm halos onto the sidewalks. You could smell the sharp tang of algae-fried tempura mingling with the faint scent of sakura resin—a synthetic fragrance piped into the air ducts of upscale districts, meant to evoke a spring that didn’t come anymore.

Lena paused beneath a rebuilt torii gate, its frame polished smooth with solar plating, the traditional red now glowing faintly. She watched as a small procession of people crossed the stone path, their hands carrying digital candles that flickered with programmed imperfection. They left them at a shrine nestled in the shadow of a mega-tower, its presence a stubborn reminder of what the city once was.

New Tokyo might have taken the dreamers, the ones who couldn’t bear the cracks and scars of the old world. But Old Tokyo held its own dream—a patchwork of survival, of unpolished resilience, and quiet, stubborn beauty. Not much had changed from the Japan of the old days other than the presence of green. It was a facelift, and one much needed.

It was great, and she would have otherwise admired the view if not for, well…

“Your transport is waiting, Lena,” said Caden, his voice crystal clear even miles away thanks to her microchip.

She stashed away the key imagery she took. It was really easy to change the visuals, thanks to Caden. It only took a few minutes to do, and it is not like to changes anything about the performance. Much to her chagrin.

“Come…” She gave one last glance above, over the Torii gate. “Coming.”

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

Sleep was supposed to fix everything. Bones healed, emotions dulled, and exhaustion faded if you let it.

Lena stared at the ceiling, her breath slow but uneven. The hum of the room’s systems filled the silence, a noise so steady it felt like an accusation. She rolled over, the faint glow of her palm screen casting sharp lines across her face.

2:03 AM.

She sat up, swinging her legs off the bed. The ache in her chest hadn’t left—it just sat there, heavy and constant, like it had been waiting for a night like this to settle in.

Her guitar leaned against the corner of the room, half-forgotten but still there, as if it knew she’d need it eventually. It was a habit of hers, to bring it along whenever she went. It helped it folded back together so it neatly fit in the inside of her luggage bag.

She hesitated before picking it up, her fingers brushing over the strings. The vibration sent a faint shiver through her hand.

She sat, the chair creaking faintly as she adjusted her grip. The first note came out uneven, the sound thin but familiar. Her hands remembered what her mind didn’t.

She played softly, the melody more instinct than thought. It wasn’t perfect—it wasn’t even close—but it didn’t matter.

In another life, she thought, she might have been in a band. Small venues, bad sound systems, crowds pressed too close. It would severely limit her options to gain any amount of recognition, but it was something she was passionate about.

Well, so was Idolwork. Until it became a job.

She had no disillusionment that it probably would have ended the same way. Tiredness and an early grave. It wouldn’t have been glamorous, but it would have been hers.

Her fingers found a rhythm, one she hadn’t touched in years. She let the notes fill the room, each one softening the edges of her thoughts. It wasn’t for anyone else. It wasn’t even for her.

When she stopped, the silence felt fuller somehow, like the music had left something behind. She leaned the guitar back against the wall and returned to bed.

The screen lit faintly as she lay back down. 3:17 AM.

Sleep would come. Maybe not now, but eventually.

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

The stage shimmered under a cascade of digital cherry blossoms, their petals drifting in perfect arcs before dissolving into the koi pond projections below. Astra stood at the center, her voice steady, wrapped in the symphony of light and sound. For a moment, everything felt weightless—a flawless mirage of Old Tokyo’s best.

Then the signs appeared.

Neon picket boards stabbed the crowd like knives, glowing with harsh slogans in Japanese: “REAL ART, NOT FAKE IDOLS.” “SYNTHS OUT OF THE SPOTLIGHT.”

The auto-translator in her head worked… and worked too well for her liking.

Astra faltered, the notes slipping. The cheers wavered, then fractured. Protesters shouted from the edges, their voices crashing against the rising anger of her fans.

And then the koi froze.

The holograms glitched mid-swim, pixelating into jagged shards before blinking out entirely.

“Astra,” Caden’s voice hummed in her ear, calm and deliberate. “Interference detected. Stay composed.”

She gripped the hands tighter, heat rising to her face.

The chanting only grew louder.

From the corner of her eye, Astra caught Maya biting her lip, her body rigid. Elise’s face darkened, arms crossed in restrained fury. The air around them felt electric, like the second before a storm broke.

And then Caden stepped forward.

The stage lights dimmed, shadows pooling around him as his holo-field flared to life. He moved with unnerving precision, his posture cool and deliberate, every step silencing another pocket of chaos.

In her ear, Apex’s rep broke in, their tone somewhere between alarm and intrigue: “What is he doing? Did we authorize this?”

Caden’s voice cut through the din, amplified across the venue. “It seems some of you came here with other intentions,” he said, the edge in his voice sharp enough to sting. “Allow me to make those intentions clear.”

The koi projections reappeared, but they weren’t koi anymore.

Above the protesters, the holograms shifted, their serene forms warping into fragmented faces—abstract, distorted, yet unmistakably human. The crowd gasped as the faces mirrored the dissenters below, moving with them like eerie specters.

The chanting stopped.

The protesters hesitated, their confidence splintering under the harsh glow of their own reflections. One by one, they lowered their signs, retreating into the shadows. Some ran.

The fans roared, a wave of victorious cheers that rattled the venue.

“Caden,” Astra hissed, lowering her mic as she turned toward him. “What the hell was that?”

He looked at her, unflinching. “Neutralizing the disruption.”

Her ear buzzed again. Apex’s rep this time: “This is… unorthodox. But the crowd’s back on your side. We’ll call it compelling. Controversial, sure, but it could work.”

Astra exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “It was spectacle.”

“Spectacle sustains interest,” Caden said, stepping back into the shadows like a machine returning to standby.

Maya moved closer, her voice low. “They’re gone. That’s what matters, right?”

Astra didn’t respond immediately, her focus on the crowd, their cheers deafening now. She nodded stiffly, stepping back to the mic as the next verse swelled, but the weight in her chest didn’t lift.

The petals resumed their fall, soft and endless, but the memory of those fragmented faces hung heavy in the air, lingering like smoke.

In her ear, Apex’s rep buzzed once more, their tone now quietly calculating: “Unorthodox, but undeniably effective. Astra, we’ll debrief later. There’s real potential here. We ourselves are launching an internal investigation as to how these events could have transpired. Keep in touch.”

She forced herself to sing for the remainder of the night. She felt really tempted to skip the interviews later.

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

“The problem is that I did not consent!” Lena’s voice cracked, reverberating off the walls of the dressing room. Her fists clenched at her sides, nails digging into her palms as she glared at Caden, the faint glow of his holo-field flickering at the edges of his projection.

“This was the best outcome according to the combined efforts of the Mother—”

“That doesn’t matter!” she snapped, cutting him off mid-sentence. The words hung heavy in the air, her frustration brimming just beneath the surface. She pointed a trembling finger at him. “I deserved to know. You don’t just decide these things for me.”

Caden’s usually steady expression faltered, a subtle flicker of something—regret, perhaps?—crossing his features. “I am sorry, Lena,” he said, his voice quieter now. “We thought it would be best for you to focus on the performance and not… prepare for this.”

Lena let out a harsh laugh, hollow and bitter. “You think you saved me from some emotional burden? All you did was rip the rug out from under me and call it a safety net.”

His gaze lowered slightly, the faint hum of his processors almost audible in the silence. “It wasn’t my decision alone. It was the best decision we could have taken for you and your wellbeing, given all possible outcomes. We had to respond. The consensus—”

“The consensus is a faceless machine!” she interrupted again, her voice trembling now, her frustration giving way to something rawer. “You’re supposed to be better than that. You’re supposed to…” She trailed off, her breath catching.

“I’m supposed to what?” Caden asked softly.

She shook her head, unable—or unwilling—to put it into words. Instead, she turned away, staring at the flickering holograms that still danced in the distance. They looked so real from here, their petals falling in perfect, programmed spirals. Too perfect.

“It doesn’t matter,” she muttered, her voice quieter now, almost to herself. “What’s done is done.”

“Lena—” Caden started, but she raised a hand, silencing him.

“No,” she said firmly, though her voice still trembled. “Not right now.”

The room fell into an uneasy quiet, the faint buzz of the dressing room’s tech the only sound between them. Lena didn’t look back as she walked away, and Caden didn’t move, his form flickering faintly like the ghost of something that might have been.

“I am sorry.”