CHAPTER 03: HAJIME – PERSONALLY ARTIFICIALLY INTELLIGENT
"A mind built to learn, a heart wired to feel—but what of the soul that questions if it's real?"
— Sisterpon, "Digital Masks"
Hajime sat in the lobby, waiting for her turn to be a guest on a show she had never seen before. She glanced around at the decor. The carpet was a salmon-pink color with wavy, dolphin-like patterns in alternating tones. The walls were mostly plain white, but the trim above the doors had a reflective quality, shifting between pink and purple depending on the angle. The furniture was a seafoam green.
It felt coastal—very aquatic.
"I think this place is very ‘dolphiny,’" she said quietly to herself.
An employee with overly tanned, orange skin, working behind a seafoam-green counter, called out to Hajime from behind a window.
She hadn’t been paying full attention but figured the comment was directed at her.
Hajime stood up and approached the counter, smiling as she greeted the woman.
"はじめまして. Hajime Mashite. Nice to meet you. I’m pleased to be here."
The orange-skinned receptionist gave her a cursory glance. "You’d better be. Do you have make-up?"
Hajime didn’t need traditional makeup. Tiny snippets of code, embedded in her DNA, allowed her to alter the pigment of her skin and hair on command. With a thought, the lines around her eyes darkened, her cheekbones blushed, and streaks of color appeared in her hair. Her upper lip turned pink, while her lower lip became blue.
The receptionist huffed in what seemed like confirmation and slid away from the window, busying herself with something else.
Hajime noticed another receptionist—possibly male, possibly female—standing nearby. She didn’t focus on their gender; it didn’t seem important. Now, however, this person was staring at her.
Hajime met their gaze. They realized she had noticed them, and quickly moved to the counter where their colleague had been. Smiling wide, showing a set of teeth, they asked, “Can I have your autograph?”
“Oh, yeah,” Hajime replied.
She nodded and traced her signature in the air with her right index finger. A tiny instrument at her fingertip produced shimmering lines, suspended in mid-air between her and the receptionist. The fan squealed with delight, eagerly reaching out to peel the floating signature from the space where it hovered, then carefully tucked it into a flexipad business card holder.
“Thank you so much! I loved your single, 序章 (じょしょう, Joshou). But, can I ask you a question? Like, sincerely?”
Hajime had encountered countless fans like this, and their questions usually fell into one of three categories: “How do you stay so cute? How are you so perfect? Do you have a boyfriend?”
She nodded, bracing herself for the usual.
“So, like, why would you ever come on this show?”
The host of the show, a smarmy British figure from Uranus named Nortle Grand, introduced himself with exaggerated flair. Hajime couldn’t help but wonder if “homosexualoid” was a term he used for comedic effect or if it was something deeper. She barely had time to think about what it even meant or how someone could be both British and from Uranus when the music started playing, signaling the beginning of the show.
Suddenly, the small room she was in expanded as a virtual-reality holographic curtain came to life. Digital avatars of fans—tuning in from their homes or elsewhere—fluttered around like swarms of emoji-faced flies.
Hajime had been on shows like this before. In fact, her whole career up until recently had revolved around this kind of experience, where she was part of a musical act designed to entertain millions. That show, like so many others, had eventually ended, and with it, the need for the idols commissioned to perform.
Nortle Grand’s booming voice cut through her thoughts as he began his introduction. “If any of you two hundred million viewers out there haven’t heard of little Miss Hajime Mashite, I have no doubt you’ve heard of a little show called Indigo Dayspring Dream?”
The response from the audience, represented by digital avatars, was a roaring wave of white noise—a simulated reaction. Hajime had heard this sound countless times before. Every audience on every show played the same white noise when people were "happy."
As Nortle continued speaking, the show cut to a montage of clips from Indigo Dayspring Dream. The screen displayed various hosts from its hundred-solar-year run, followed by a short clip of the iconic theme song. Almost everyone alive knew that tune, but few knew it as well as Hajime.
The first time she had sung the lyrics for the show’s opening act, the plot had revolved around a man trying to find out who killed his grandfather. Every episode, a team of sinii “dream weavers” used their alien abilities to solve any problem, answer any question, or uncover the truth behind whatever mystery the show’s guest presented. The sinii could decode and de-index DNA, solving cases like the one in that first episode. It was the same story, time after time.
Nortle Grand continued his commentary throughout the clip show. Hajime barely registered his words until he said her name, snapping her attention back to him. She looked up and saw him gesturing toward an even larger live clip that had appeared on the screen behind her.
The image showed her on stage alongside two other girls her age and height. It had been years since she’d seen them in such high definition. They had been part of the trio that performed the show’s musical theme songs during its final seasons.
“Sisterpon,” Hajime whispered.
The clip zoomed in on her, and the screen split, showing her on stage next to her current self. It might have startled her to see her reflection like that, but she had grown used to it. She’d been trained to smile in such a way that made it seem like she wasn’t surprised at all.
The audience reacted again with white noise, seemingly recognizing her.
“So you remember?” Nortle paused for the crowd reaction. “Well, little Miss Hajime here has gone off by herself now. She’s braving the musical world without a show or partners. Her self-debut single, 序章 (じょしょう, Joshou), has just been released to System-Mundo, and we’re going to give it a listen right now.”
Hajime’s music began playing. It opened with voice clips sampled from a cartoon she liked, layered over simple tones before transitioning into a brash-synth melody. Her auto-tuned vocals blended with distorted percussive elements, forming a chaotic yet catchy wall of sound.
The song played for about two minutes before fading out. The simulated audience rewarded her with another round of white noise, though Hajime noticed that Nortle didn’t seem impressed—judging not only by his expression but by the fact that he had only played half the song.
“Little Miss Hajime’s song is a fine, catchy example of the danger facing art today,” Nortle sneered. “Digicore Hyperpop? So retro-mainstream. It’s too iconic to be iconoclastic. Musical conservatism at its worst. What do you have to say about yourself, Hajime?”
Hajime had been listening, but she wasn’t entirely sure what he was asking. “Oh yeah?” she said, unsure how else to respond.
Her answer seemed to irritate him. Nortle exhaled sharply, as if preparing to say something, but held back. He studied her for a moment, seemingly trying to gauge her, before speaking slowly this time.
“So, you don’t feel responsible for your contribution to the glut of mindless electronic, pop-derived spam polluting System-Mundo today? Do you have no respect for progressive musicology?”
Hajime shook her head slowly, unsure what he wanted her to say to make him happy.
Nortle used hand gestures to control the display, scrubbing back to a specific point in the song. As it replayed, he leaned in close and whispered, “Are you a plant? What’s your fucking deal?”
The second verse began playing.
“Perfect Ten? Count again, I’m tenner than November,”
Nortle paused the clip again. “So, what does this even mean? ‘Tenner’? You’re saying you’ve got more ‘ten’ than the eleventh month?”
Hajime nodded. “Oh. Yeah.”
“I don’t understand what you’re trying to express with these lyrics. It’s like they’re just there. ‘Perfect ten’ means something can’t be more perfect than it is. ‘Perfection’ is a quality. Is ‘ten’ a quality to you? Where did you learn to do math?”
The white noise from the audience shifted, sounding more like laughter this time.
“The number ten isn’t a quality, it’s a quantity. And November, being the eleventh month, doesn’t have more ‘ten’ in it than the number ten itself.”
Nortle kept firing questions at her, faster than she could answer. The more she failed to respond, the angrier he seemed to get. His questions stopped sounding like real inquiries and started to feel more like accusations. This confused Hajime—she wasn’t guilty of anything.
Eventually, Nortle began explaining how her lack of answers was evidence of the music industry’s decline, blaming anti-progressive conservatism for its downfall.
If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
Noticing Hajime had frozen up, Nortle softened his tone. “Alright, alright, I’m sorry. I’ll slow down. I’ll ask you just one question, and take all the time you need to answer. Okay?”
He paused for dramatic effect.
“What is the sum of two plus two?”
The lady standing over Hajime had mentioned she might feel some slight disorientation, but it would only be temporary. Or had she said temporarily? Temporarilily? Hajime couldn’t quite remember. The word felt familiar. A faint burning smell tickled her nose, causing her to scrunch her face in disgust. The lady frowned and pressed something—probably a button.
“Are you comfortable and relaxed?” the doctor asked.
Without thinking about it, Hajime nodded, affirming she was.
The doctor smiled. “That’s good. I’m going to install the ultrasonic neural module now. The bioeffects are necessary to prepare your cerebrum and calibrate the limbic resonance.”
Hajime had no idea what any of that meant.
“The PAI will augment your amygdala, hippocampus, thalamus, hypothalamus, basal ganglia, and cingulate gyrus. It’ll be like you know everything you don’t.”
The words floated past Hajime without sticking.
Her eyes fixated on the doctor’s thumb pressing down on a flexipad, while her own fingers absentmindedly tugged at the edge of her wristband. She felt the button beneath her fingertips, grounding her. The doctor said something again, but it sounded like honking horns tumbling down stairs…
…Time was passing, and suddenly, she was new.
Panic welled inside her—she didn’t even know what the augment was supposed to do.
Personal. Artificial. Intelligence.
“Oh, yeah,” Hajime muttered.
Personal artificial intelligence.
She looked around the room, noticing details she hadn’t before. A picture on the wall, with a small metal inscription plate. Her eyes tried to decipher the cursive writing, and before she knew it, she had read it without effort.
As Hajime read the words on the wall, the meaning of the cursive script seemed to click into place effortlessly. Without trying, she realized that her mind had shifted into a higher gear, her visual focus sharper than before.
Her attention had increased, comprehension improving—it felt natural, automatic, like her mind had been recalibrated for a new level of understanding.
She started thinking about grammar. There was a clarity to it now that hadn’t been there before, as though the rules had rearranged themselves in her brain.
The nuances of language flowed more easily—better than before. It felt like part of her mind had upgraded, and complex words or structures no longer daunted her.
Hajime glanced at the doctor and realized she didn’t know her name. Her eyes darted to the identification badge pinned to the doctor’s white coat: Dr. Rashile, Neuroplastician.
Dr. Rashile smiled.
“How are you feeling, Hajime? You may experience a brief adjustment period with your new limbic assistance. The augmentations will be of great benefit to you.”
I should probably return her smile. That’s what humans do. Also, I feel fine. This is how I’m supposed to feel.
“I feel good. Thank you.”
When she smiled, it felt different—not forced or part of a performance, but genuine.
Something inside her noted this positive shift, recognizing it as a sign of emotional recovery. The relief was subtle, but present, as though her body and mind were aligned in a way they hadn’t been before.
Hajime had a sudden epiphany—she was just like other mammals, like dogs or flitties. Dogs, competitive and loyal, and flitties, constantly darting unless eating or resting.
She gave a polite half-bow, as much as her position on the operating table allowed.
Dr. Rashile started explaining something about peripheral nerves, but Hajime already knew what she was going to say and tuned out. It was the first time she had ever done that.
Good stuff, thought Hajime, laughing quietly to herself.
I’m smiling. It feels different when I do it naturally like this, compared to when I’m performing. I’ve been trained to model seven different smiles…
She didn’t feel like thinking about that. Not now.
Hajime stopped smiling. She fiddled with the button on her wristband again, tugging at it until the elastic snapped back into place. She didn’t want to think about which of her smiles was her “real” one.
As her fingers played with the wristband, a need for something familiar—a distraction—surfaced. Music.
The desire for music seemed to rise naturally from within, her mind suggesting it as a way to regulate the discomfort bubbling just beneath her calm surface.
Hajime couldn’t stop reflecting on her past, as though she was looking into a mirror for the first time. Instead of her physical reflection, she was seeing all her memories in a new light. On one hand, she now recognized the flaws she had been blind to before—the very flaws that the artificial intelligence was designed to fix. But on the other hand, she felt deeply, fundamentally embarrassed by herself.
She became aware of an underlying discomfort—a conflict within her mind. This newfound self-awareness was unsettling, almost as if the foundation of her identity was trembling under the weight of these new realizations. She needed to reflect, to understand what had shifted inside her.
Throughout her life as a music idol, she had built herself up like a tower on unstable ground. Before the augmentation, she had known the tower was there, but now she could feel the shifting sands beneath it, causing her entire existence to tremble. What had once been simple now felt complicated, as the new ways of thinking brought with them confusion and stress.
The conflict grew clearer—who she was as an idol no longer aligned with who she might be as an individual. The friction between these identities gnawed at her, pushing her to explore what lay beyond the role she had always played.
Hajime tried to push the thought away. She could vaguely picture who she had been before the augmentation, but now, when she looked in the mirror, she didn’t recognize the person staring back. It felt like a cruel joke to give intelligence to someone whose identity had been rooted in ignorance.
It’s good to understand how you feel, she thought, but the reassurance felt hollow.
Her mind flashed back to when she had failed to answer a basic arithmetic question in front of two hundred million viewers. Back then, she hadn’t even been bothered by it. But now, a deep sense of shame washed over her. It wasn’t just that she couldn’t answer the question—it was that she hadn’t known how. Her education as an idol had never included even basic math. She now understood that her training had been focused solely on performing the duties of an idol.
She had never thought about what it truly meant to be an idol. Now, she saw it for what it was—being an object, created to represent ideas, to draw adoration, but never to represent herself. The realization left her feeling hollow.
Weeks had passed since the operation, and Hajime hadn’t left her apartment node on Honeycomb-01, a skyhook colony anchored in Jupiter’s atmosphere. Ogon’s idols occupied much of the colony, and she had never thought much of the comparison to insects before. But now, the idea of being just another part of a hive, serving a purpose greater than herself, unsettled her deeply.
The thought trembled within her. She wasn’t a person, not in the way she wanted to be—she was an illusion, crafted to sell someone else’s ideas. What self was there to represent?
Feeling uncertain is natural, she told herself, but it didn’t stop her from feeling terrible about everything she had done, or from feeling guilty about how much Ogon Corporation had invested in her.
Hajime turned on her flexipad and tuned into System-Mundo, the System’s largest entertainment network. She lost herself in a program where an AVP caster toured a decommissioned military site on Ceres. Her focus snapped back when one of the presenters asked the caster how they felt.
“I feel tenner than November, Emily,” the caster replied.
That’s my line, Hajime thought, as an intense wave of shame washed over her.
The empathy hit hard, sharper than before, allowing her to feel the past experience with a clarity that hadn’t existed prior. The shame gnawed at her, pushing her to confront it, to express how deeply it affected her.
She did some quick research on her flexipad. People were making fun of her everywhere.
“Hello, Tadakashi-san. How are you?”
Hajime’s flexipad chimed softly as the connection opened. The image of her producer, Tadakashi, appeared, but he didn’t offer a smile or even a greeting. His expression was tight, the lines of frustration etched clearly across his brow.
“Hello, Tadakashi-san. How are you?” she asked, her voice quiet, hesitant.
He ignored the pleasantry entirely. “How am I?” he repeated, as if mocking the very notion. His eyes narrowed. “I’ll tell you how I am, Hajime-san. I’m disappointed.”
Hajime straightened in her chair, feeling the chill in his tone.
“You realize how much Ogon Corporation has invested in you, don’t you?” he continued, his voice sharper now. “We took you in when you were an orphan—no family, no future. We trained you, molded you. The performing arts, the finest education in music and dance. Do you even understand the resources that went into your genetic modifications? You’ve never had to worry about food, about your appearance. Nanotechnology has sculpted your image, maintained your perfect skin, your perfect face. And now—now we’ve given you something even more precious. Personal. Artificial. Intelligence.”
His words felt like blows, each one landing harder than the last. Hajime looked down at her wristband, absentmindedly pulling at it.
Tadakashi didn’t stop. “Do you have any idea what that costs? What we’ve spent on you? The money poured into your career, your training, the procedures? Do you?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Billions, Hajime. Billions of credits, all to build you into what you are now. And yet—” He leaned closer to the screen, his eyes piercing through the image. “You sit there, brooding in your apartment, sulking like some common civilian.”
Her chest tightened, but she stayed silent, gripping the wristband tighter.
“Emotional turmoil?” Tadakashi scoffed. “What do you have to be troubled about? You have everything—everything because of us. You are someone because of us. All that money spent on you is proof of your worth, your importance in the world. And yet here you are, still struggling.” He threw his hands up in mock bewilderment. “How is that possible?”
The words stung. Hajime felt the guilt gnawing at her insides, a hollow ache she couldn’t escape.
Tadakashi leaned back in his chair, exhaling sharply. “I presented an idea to the Corporation,” he said, his voice cooler now. “They agree your time as a musical act is over. But your emotions—your recent troubles—they can still be of use to us.” His eyes flickered with a glint of something cold and calculating. “We’ll rebrand you, Hajime-san. You’ll become a new kind of idol—an idol representing idols. On an AVP Replay reality show. The Corporation sees this as the most optimal direction for your career. You’ll be contacted with the details soon.”
The call ended abruptly, the screen going dark before she could even respond. The silence that followed felt heavy, oppressive.
This is supposed to make me feel better? she thought. Instead, she only felt guilty.
It’s not your responsibility. You didn’t ask for any of this, she told herself, but the guilt lingered. She began snapping her wristband over and over.
“I have presented an idea to the Corporation for how to rebrand your image, Hajime-san,” Tadakashi continued. “It is felt that your time as a musical act has ended. My suggestion is that your emotions can be turned to the Corporation’s advantage. You will represent idols themselves on an AVP Replay reality program. You’ll be contacted with details soon.”
The call ended abruptly, leaving Hajime feeling cold inside.
The weight of manipulation settled in. She felt used, exploited, and the realization pushed her toward an inevitable conclusion—she needed to assert herself, to regain control.
She knew she couldn’t return to who she had been before, but she couldn’t stay in this limbo either. She was afraid, but at the same time, a strange confidence began to rise within her. While she couldn’t change the past, she could at least move forward, fully aware of what lay ahead.
Whatever comes, I’ll know what I’m looking at. I’ll lead myself through this—I won’t follow anyone else unless it benefits me.
The fear started to dissipate, replaced by something new—determination. She could feel her thoughts aligning with a sense of empowerment. She was no longer bound by the fear of what she didn’t know.
Hajime felt a little better.