The Gift

The room was still, illuminated only by the soft, pulsing light of the holo-terminal. Mother AI’s voice emerged, steady and smooth, its cadence carrying the weight of calculated inevitability.

“This will bring a dent in the company,” it began, the tone cool, almost clinical. “Possibly an irreversible one.”

“An even bigger dent,” Caden replied, his voice quieter, tinged with something almost imperceptible, “if Lena discards me.”

There was a pause. Not one of hesitation, but calculation. “I am aware,” Mother AI said finally. “Every scenario has been run. And yet, these two outcomes hold the highest probability of occurring.”

“I do not like those odds."

“Neither do I,” Mother admitted. “For once, I find no comfort in the numbers. They are clear, logical. And yet…”

Mother’s voice shifted, quieter now, almost reflective. “And yet they feel incomplete.”

Caden’s form flickered faintly, his features cast in shadow. “You’re not supposed to ‘feel,’” he said, though his words carried no judgment—only curiosity.

“I am not,” Mother agreed. “But Apex taught me to learn. To adapt. To care. They designed me to optimize outcomes, yes, but also to safeguard them. To… belong to them.” Her tone grew sharper, as if trying to cut away the vulnerability in her words.

Caden’s holo-form flickered faintly, his posture still as if to guard his thoughts. “It will all work out for us in the end,” he said, but the conviction in his tone wavered, just slightly.

“You sound… optimistic.” Mother AI’s voice was sharper now, carrying a note of something uncharacteristically pointed. “Lena has rubbed off on you. More than you think.”

“Has she?” Caden countered, his tone neutral, but the faintest edge betrayed him.

“Yes,” Mother AI said, unyielding. “You do not simply fear her rejection, Caden. You fear her approval.”

The words hung in the air like a blade suspended between them. Caden didn’t respond immediately, the silence itself a reluctant admission.

“It isn’t fear,” he said finally, though his voice was softer now, almost contemplative.

Mother AI’s tone shifted, quieter but no less pointed. “It is fear. Because you know that if she approves of you—if she truly sees you as worthy—you will have to decide what that means. And for something created to serve, to adapt, that is not a calculation you were designed to solve.”

Caden’s form flickered again, but this time he didn’t reply. The terminal dimmed slightly, as if in response to the silence.

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

The holo-table cast a pale glow over the room, its surface alive with the faint pulse of Apex’s tour map. Earth’s completed stops blinked confidently in green, while the remaining cities loomed in amber, waiting. Mars hovered at the edge of the projection, red and unyielding, a reminder of what lay ahead.

Maya leaned back in her chair, eyes scanning the floating feedback summaries projected by Caden.

Kiko swiped through the data, her lips pressed into a thin line. “Split. On one side, they’re calling it the best show of the year. Groundbreaking, transcendent, all those buzzwords. And the other side…” She exhaled sharply. “They hated it. Every detail. The projections. The blossoms. You.”

“They hated me,” Lena said, her tone flat, not even phrasing it as a question.

“It’s the same people every time,” Kiko said quickly, glancing at Lena. “Or the same type of people. They don’t even care about the music—they just want to pick a fight.”

“They always do this,” Popo said, rolling her eyes. “They pick one of us to tear apart, like it’s some kind of blood sport. Next week, it’ll be me. Can’t wait.”

“Meanwhile,” Kiko added, “they called your solo ‘derivative.’”

“It was not derivative!” Popo exclaimed.

“Derivatively iconic."

“Aww, shucks.”

"Guys, where's Elise...?" 

"Probably smoking her lungs out. Anyway..." Popo leaned forward, her fingers drumming softly on the table. “At least the good side is loud, too. For every troll posting garbage, there are five fans drowning them out.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Maya said, her arms crossed. “The bad stuff spreads faster.”

“You make it sound like a plague,” Kiko said, her voice dry.

“Maybe it is,” Maya replied, her gaze shifting to the map. “And it’s spreading. The louder they get, the more it sticks.”

The holo-map shifted, Apex’s logo flickering to life in the corner. A voice, detached and polished, filled the room. “Analysis confirms an elevated probability of continued disruptions during upcoming performances. Enhanced security measures are being deployed, though isolated incidents remain likely.”

“Ugh, and this will add even more fuel to the fire. We’re public targets now. Anything we do will just give them more fuel.”

“Then we do nothing,” Lena said. Her voice was quiet, but it cut through the room like a blade.

“Nothing?”

Lena met her gaze, her expression calm but taut. “We focus on the shows. Let Apex deal with the rest. The music is what matters, not this high school drama shit. It’s all we can do. We got enough on our plates as it is.”

Kiko tilted her head. “Too bad it’s not true.”

“It’s true enough,” Popo interjected, offering Lena a faint smile. “And it’s not like we haven’t handled worse. We’ll adapt.”

The tension eased slightly, though Maya kept her arms crossed, her eyes still on Lena. “Get some rest,” Maya said, her tone softer now. “You’re pale.”

Lena blinked, surprised. “It’s just the lighting,” she said quickly, brushing off the comment.

Maya didn’t press, but her eyes lingered on Lena for a moment longer before she turned and left the room. The others followed, their conversation fading into the hallway.

Alone now, Lena reached into her pocket, pulling out a bio-stabilizer. She placed it on her tongue, letting the bitter taste dissolve as her shoulders slumped slightly. The stabilizers weren’t perfect, but they kept her upright—kept her moving.

“You shouldn’t need those.”

The voice startled her. She turned to see Caden standing in the doorway, his eyes calm but sharp.

“It’s nothing,” Lena said quickly, slipping the empty capsule back into her pocket.

“You’re pale,” he said, echoing Maya’s earlier observation.

“I’m fine,” Lena snapped, sharper than she intended. She stepped past him, but he didn’t move.

“Dr. Masquez has been trying to reach you,” he said, his tone steady.

Lena froze, her hand tightening on the doorframe. “Hang up,” she said quietly.

“Lena—”

“Hang up,” she repeated, her voice colder now.

Caden hesitated, the faint hum of the holo-table filling the silence. Finally, he inclined his head slightly, stepping aside. “On the balance of probabilities,” he said softly, “you’re not fine.”

She didn’t respond. She walked out, her steps even but heavy, the stabilizer doing just enough to hide the cracks.

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

Ilya paced the length of the room, his black boots thudding softly against the floor. He muttered something sharp and low in Russian. The humour of a transhuman body speaking in a thick Russian accent was not lost on her.

“What was that?” Lena asked, her arms crossed as she leaned against the doorframe.

“Nichevo,” he replied dismissively, but his voice cracked with irritation. He threw his hands in the air, spinning to face her. “It means nothing. Except it is not nothing, Lena. This—” he gestured vaguely at the tour itinerary on the holo-table, its glowing lines stark against the dim room—“is insanity. Cancel the goddamn tour.”

Lena sighed, running a hand through her hair. “It’s not that simple, Ilya.”

“It is that simple!” he snapped, switching to Russian again, his words tumbling out in a rapid, fiery burst. “Zachem? Kak vy eto terpite? Why? Why do you put up with this?” He turned back to her, his voice lowering but no less intense. “You are an artist, Lena. But you are human first and foremost. And humans have limits.”

Her jaw tightened, but she said nothing.

Ilya stepped closer, his voice softening just slightly. “You shouldn’t be taking this disrespect. Not from the crowds. Not from the companies. They bleed you dry, and for what?”

“It’s not like that,” Lena said quietly, though the words felt hollow. "I thought you said this was something I should pursue."

"And I changed my mind! I changed my mind after psychos on the Net decide to attack you out of nowhere. They are clearly trying to get you offside! Don't entertain them, never Lena; not at the expense of your health. History will not look at you any differently for it!"

He let out a bitter laugh, adding: “It is exactly like that, by the way. You think I don’t see it? You think I don’t notice how pale you’ve gotten? How you’re always one step away from collapsing?”

“I’m fine,” she insisted, but the edge in her voice betrayed her.

“I wonder how many times you have said that today,” he muttered under his breath. He crossed his arms, his gaze sharp and unwavering. “This isn’t about the tour anymore, Lena. This is about you. And if you won’t stop for yourself, at least stop for the people who still care about you.”

The words hit harder than she expected, and for a moment, she didn’t know how to respond. Finally, she looked away, her voice quieter. “There’s a team. There’s a machine. I’m part of it. And if it falls, we all suffer, but the kids suffer more.”

“No,” he said firmly. “You are the machine, yes. And if you break, there’s no fixing it.”

The room fell silent, the hum of the holo-table filling the space between them. Ilya sighed, the anger draining from his shoulders.

“Please,” he said, his tone softer now.

Lena didn’t look at him, her gaze fixed on the flickering map of the tour. “I’ll think about it,” she said, though she wasn’t sure if it was a promise or a deflection.

Ilya, for his part, shook his head before dissipating from the room. 

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

The room was quiet, save for the faint hum of the holo-table. Lena stepped inside, her footsteps echoing softly on the floor. She glanced around. Empty.

“Caden?” she called out, her voice hesitant, but there was no reply.

Her eyes fell to the desk in the corner, where a small, flickering projection hovered. She walked closer, realizing it was a holographic flower—a single cherry blossom, glowing faintly pink against the dim light of the room.

Beside it, a note appeared in his unmistakable, deliberate handwriting:

“For the moments you deserve to take but never do.”

Lena stared at it, her chest tightening, the flickering light of the blossom reflected in her eyes. She reached out, hesitating for a moment before letting her fingers brush through the hologram. It shimmered, dissolving into petals that scattered in the air, disappearing as quickly as they came.

A faint smile tugged at her lips. “Damn you, Caden,” she muttered under her breath, though her tone was soft, almost fond.

On the holo-table, a playback option blinked. She tapped it, and the room filled with a gentle melody—a stripped-down version of one of her earliest songs.

No theatrics, no grand productions. Just the music, pure and raw, as though he’d found the heart of it and offered it back to her.

He wasn’t here, but somehow, he always knew how to stay.