The Hardest Part

Day three in New Tokyo.

The demand had been astronomical—literally. Tickets for the third show had vanished in seconds, scalpers turning the resale market into a gold rush.

The audience had come from across the solar system for this, braving cramped transport shuttles and strict Martian protocols. The mines on Io and such couldn't accomodate them... so, for a night under New Tokyo’s glowing domes, the inconvenience was worth it.

Mars, the unyielding red giant, wasn’t a place for permanence. It had been spared terraforming by a rare act of interstellar consensus, its surface deemed too historically and scientifically significant to alter.

Instead, humanity built around it: domes to shield against its thin, toxic atmosphere, sprawling underground cities to house its transient population. It was a world of visitors, not settlers—a stop between Earth and the stars. Yet a stubborn permanent few remained. With most of the resources already mined, it is often a wonder why.

Lena hovered in the NetOrb, her form a flickering holographic projection amidst the simulated expanse. Around her, the scene played out in surreal clarity—a blend of reality and hyper-designed spectacle. The stage shimmered with towering projections, koi fish swimming through cascading cherry blossoms, the crowd roaring as if their voices alone could fuel the show.

She coughed a lot… too much. But the suppressors did their work. For now.

This was her moment to observe, her chance to see everything and do everything she normally did on the Net before she stepped into the light.

She watched the others, her breath caught in her throat as Elise moved across the stage.

The choreography was precise, intricate, designed to be seamless. 

But Lena could see it—the hesitation, the half-second delay that made Elise’s motions feel stilted. 

A missed turn. A stumble that didn’t look rehearsed.

The crowd didn’t notice right away. They were too entranced by the lights, the music, the overwhelming sensory experience. But then Elise’s foot caught on the platform’s edge, and the stumble became a fall.

Lena’s chest tightened.

“No,” she whispered, her voice reverberating faintly in the NetOrb’s void.

Elise hit the ground hard, her hands slamming against the stage to catch herself. The koi projections faltered, their smooth gliding interrupted by jagged, glitching movements. The audience gasped, their collective intake of breath louder than any cheer.

Lena clenched her fists, her form flickering with the tension. “Get up,” she whispered, before coughing inexplicably , willing Elise to rise. “Get up, Elise.”

Maya was already moving, her steps fluid, her hand outstretched as she pulled Elise to her feet. The music never stopped, the act rolling forward as though nothing had happened. Maya leaned in briefly, her words lost to the noise, and Elise nodded, her face pale but determined.

The crowd’s roar returned, louder now, as if trying to drown out the mistake. The projections adjusted, the koi spinning into new patterns, the cherry blossoms falling faster to mask the falter in rhythm.

But Lena couldn’t look away from Elise’s face—the tightness in her jaw, the strain in her eyes.

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

Maya sat back, dragging her hands down her face. “It’s already everywhere,” she said. “They’re tearing her apart, but they’re tearing us apart too. And Apex is just...” She gestured vaguely and wildly toward the screen.

The door clicked open, and an Apex representative stepped inside, their polished suit somehow looking more out of place than Maya’s rumpled jacket. Their expression was clipped, professional, but there was a faint sheen of sweat on their brow.

“This needs to be handled,” the rep said without preamble, their tone brisk. “The backlash is building, and the board is already concerned about the optics. We can’t have people thinking we’re running our talent into the ground.”

Lena turned slowly, her arms crossing over her chest. “Running our talent into the ground?” she repeated, her voice low and dangerous.

The rep hesitated but held their ground. “This is a billion-dollar tour, Lena. If the narrative gets away from us—”

“The narrative,” Lena interrupted, her voice sharp now. “You mean the one where you’re making billions off this tour while we’re the ones working ourselves sick to keep it afloat?”

The rep blinked, startled. “That’s not—”

“I know exactly what this is about. You want us to patch this over so the money keeps rolling in. OK, great, I understand that. But don’t stand there and tell me what I can or can’t do when you’ve been squeezing us dry from the start. It may be ridiculous since we still early into this tour, but the company has to have had contingencies like this in the past.”

"But none at this scale."

“Lena,” Maya murmured, glancing up, but Lena shook her head.

“No,” she said, her voice firm. “This is on me. I’m the one who made the schedule. I’m the one who should’ve seen this coming. But don’t act like you don’t have a part in this too.”

The rep shifted uncomfortably, their carefully neutral expression faltering. “What do you expect us to do? We need this resolved.”

Lena let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “Resolved,” she echoed. “You mean smoothed over. Just enough to keep everyone quiet until the next show.” She stepped forward, her gaze hard. “We’ll fix it. But not for you. For her. For all of us.”

The rep opened their mouth to respond, but Lena cut them off with a wave of her hand. “Get out,” she said sharply.

The rep hesitated, then nodded curtly before retreating, the door clicking shut behind them.

Lena leaned back against the table, her chest heaving as the adrenaline ebbed. Maya watched her carefully, her own expression tight with unease.

“Do you really think we can fix this?” Maya asked quietly.

Then it happened.

Caden froze.

His projection stilled entirely, the soft lights in his optics dimming for a fraction of a second before flickering erratically. Lena noticed first, her brow furrowing. “Caden?”

He didn’t respond.

Maya looked up, her face tightening. “What’s wrong with him?”

Lena didn’t answer, stepping closer. Caden’s holo-form remained locked in place, his expression unnervingly blank. Then, without warning, he moved again—sharply, almost too fast, as if overcorrecting.

“I didn’t see it,” he said, his voice flat, almost mechanical.

Maya frowned. “What?”

“I didn’t see it,” Caden repeated, his form flickering faintly. “The whole. The trend. The probabilities. I saw it all. But I didn’t see... her.”

The weight of his words sank into the room, pulling everything tighter. Lena closed her eyes briefly, her fingers pressing against her temples.

“I accounted for the comments,” Caden continued, his tone steady but hollow. “I knew they hurt. I didn’t realize they consumed. I didn’t calculate the compounding effects. I didn't spend enough time around her.”

“Oh my God.” Maya let out a slow, sharp breath, her lips parting slightly as she turned to him. “Project Apex Comms,” she said, her voice barely audible.

Caden’s projection flickered, then steadied as a holographic display appeared in the center of the room. Elise’s face materialized, pale and resolute, her eyes glassy as she stared into the camera.

“I’ve decided to step back from the tour.”

Her voice was even, carefully controlled, but the strain was clear if you knew what to listen for. The words were meaningless. Dead air. It wasn't even Elise speaking, not anymore.

Then, a flash; she remembered…

“The team’s carrying dead weight. Can’t believe Apex hasn’t replaced her yet.”

“Looks like someone’s been skipping workouts. Not Idol material anymore.”

“She is not fucking fat.” Maya’s jaw tightened, her voice trembling. “Tone and a little bit of muscle doesn't make you fat.”

Caden’s optics flickered again, his tone quiet but heavy. “I accounted for these comments. I predicted backlash. But I underestimated...” He hesitated, his optics dimming slightly. “The escalation. The percentage seemed negligible...”

The recording ended, and the projection dissolved into nothing.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Lena sat heavily on the edge of the table, her hands gripping its edge. “She couldn’t tell us,” she said quietly. “She knew we’d try to stop her.”

“Would we?” Maya snapped, turning to face her.

Lena didn’t reply.