CHAPTER 19: HAJIME - SIX MINDS’ DEMONS
"We sing the songs of others' dreams, but who will listen when it's our turn to scream?"
–Sisterpon (KaaKiTouTeum)
The girl called Shin Gaaru was nine years old.
“Have you seen that new girl at school? The one who just says she’s pleased to meet you no matter what? What an idiot. We should call her ‘Hajime Mashite.’”
“The one standing right behind you?” came a voice, calm but sharp.
The girl who had been speaking, known as Ja Mata—because she was always leaving early or drifting away from groups—spun around with a practiced smirk. “How rude. I’m actually late for my remedial E & M class. You know I flunked my last one. See you guys later.” She was already halfway gone, melting into the river of students flooding the hallway.
“Happy birthday!” she called back over her shoulder, already pushing her way through the crowd like a seasoned navigator.
Hajime Mashite, the name freshly bestowed on her by the infamous Ja Mata, called after her, “What do you need to see me about?” But Ja Mata had already begun sprinting, her footsteps drowned by the chorus of chatter. Always on the move, always out of reach.
At least mean girls had enough popularity to bestow names on the less popular ones. What a ridiculous system. It was an intricate web of hierarchies woven from fleeting popularity, cuteness, and just enough creativity to stick. Hajime Mashite—newly minted E-Tier, Rising Star—was learning the rules. Ja Mata, a D-Tier Dynamic Personality, had the authority to update someone’s name, especially if it was kawaii enough to catch on. Everything was observed, everything was judged. The game was never-ending.
O Genki, the third girl standing by the water fountain that morning—a B-Tier Beauty Charm—tilted her head and gave Hajime a curious look. “You okay? Congrats on the new name... and happy birthday!”
Hajime shrugged. The name was fine, she supposed. "I’m okay."
Until now, she'd been "Shin Gaaru," a playful jab at being "The New Girl." Japanese wasn’t even her first language, though she couldn’t remember her original one anymore. Somewhere along the way, she'd made the mistake of introducing herself redundantly. Now she had a new name, whether she liked it or not. A pun. Of course.
“Birthday?” Hajime raised an eyebrow, surprised. “Oh yeah?”
“Today’s October 23rd. Scorpio Day,” O Genki said, flashing a bright smile. “You’re a Scorpio, so today’s your birthday—every four years, right? You probably don’t remember your first one. Most girls don’t. I don’t remember mine.”
Hajime Mashite didn’t like remembering anything. Forgetting was easier, a habit she’d perfected. She couldn’t recall much from the past—didn’t want to. But she did know she’d never had a birthday like this before, not here at least. She’d only been in this school for two years, and the first didn’t really count. Back then, she barely spoke enough Japanese to get by, invisible in the hallways, unnoticed in the classrooms.
O Genki, still beaming, leaned in closer. The girl was tall, towering over Hajime. She had to look straight down to make eye contact. There was something intimidating about her, though her smile softened the edge. Hajime couldn’t help but think that if O Genki wanted to, she could swallow her whole. But for now, the smile stayed friendly, even if a little too wide.
And so, Hajime Mashite stood there, named and claimed by the school’s unofficial hierarchy, unsure of what her new identity meant—but knowing it was out of her hands either way.
At least spending her days at school helped her forget what life was like back when she lived in space. Out there, everything wanted to kill you. Here, in school, it felt like everyone just wanted you to die inside. It was an improvement, one she could live with.
School had taught her the basics: idol etiquette, singing, dancing. She danced so much these days, but they gave you shots before training to make sure your feet didn’t hurt. She’d spent her whole life in zero-gravity before, and now everything was about touching the ground. At first, it felt strange, but she’d gotten used to it. Now she was pretty good at both dancing and singing. They were training her to be a mezzo-soprano, and eventually, she’d have a range from G3 to G5. For now, she could hit alto notes, but not as well, and only because she was still young. She wanted to learn how to sing falsetto, but for some reason, they wouldn’t allow it.
O Genki watched her, her wide smile never quite fading. “Don’t mind Ja Mata,” she said lightly. “She acts that way for attention. Once you find your thing, you’ll move up a Tier, and then you’ll be able to boss people around. If you want to, I guess. I’m not into that, though. You want a new nickname? I can give you one if you want.” She seemed to ponder for a moment. “How about...”
Before she could finish, an announcement blared over the intercom, echoing from every corner of the school. It called for all nine-year-olds to report to Grooming & Auditions.
O Genki stared down at Hajime Mashite expectantly. Hajime blinked twice, feeling her stomach twist with unease.
The taller girl cleared her throat with exaggerated cuteness. “You’re nine, Hajime Mashite. Today.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Do I have to go?” Anxiety curled inside Hajime like a slow knot tightening. She didn’t want to go. She didn’t care about the Grooming & Auditions. This place felt like a shelter, a bubble where things were supposed to stay the same. Why did things always have to change?
“You should care more about impressing people,” O Genki said, her tone soft but firm. “Your future career depends on it.”
“Oh. Yeah.”
Surely something would happen between now and then. Nothing lasted forever.
“You owe it to Ogon Corporation. They took us in as orphans and gave us a future.”
“Will I get in trouble if I don’t go?” Hajime asked, her voice smaller now.
“Yes, probably,” O Genki replied. “But also, it’s unbecoming not to show up.”
“What do they do to you?”
“Nothing, really. They won’t kick you out of the program. But your reputation will take a hit, and you’ll never move up in Tier. When you turn sixteen, you can quit if you want.”
“Why sixteen?” Hajime asked, feeling like she was grasping for something she couldn’t quite reach.
O Genki seemed to mull over the question, searching for the right words. Finally, she said, “Please don’t quit, Hajime Mashite. You’re making me want to cry.”
Sure enough, O Genki’s big eyes began to well up, threatening to spill over. The tears would literally rain down on Hajime.
The older, taller girl, with her nurse-like demeanor, had definitely earned her B-Tier rank. She was cute, like a walking hug. This made Hajime Mashite feel anxious, so she decided to just go along with it.
For live performances, Hajime Mashite was expected to sing, to dance, and to maintain pitch control while doing both. Out of breath? Too bad. If she messed up too much, well, she was an investment. Off to surgery she’d go, down for a new organ to replace the one she couldn’t manage herself. It was brutal, but Hajime Mashite had long since learned not to care about what they wanted from her. At least she wasn’t dead.
Memorizing complex dance routines, engaging the audience with eye contact, projecting confidence—all while looking visually appealing. It felt like a nightmare. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself, but here she was, being trained to be the one thing everyone noticed. Yet in doing this, she discovered something: the more people noticed you, the less they saw of you. They only saw what they expected to see, and once you gave them that, nothing else mattered. For Hajime Mashite, it felt like hiding in plain sight.
Once she figured it out, she did well. Not great, but good enough. She developed a reputation for being shy, even though, in reality, she just didn’t have much to say. Some called her a procrastinator, but really, she just liked to explore different ways of doing things, often delaying action until she was sure she had tried all the possibilities. To some, that looked like slow progress.
Her natural aptitude for learning was undeniable—until it came to Audience Interaction. No matter how hard she tried, she just couldn’t connect. Ultimately, it was decided she’d never be a successful solo act, but she might work well in a group. Luckily, she had one.
It was Cancer Day, O Genki’s birthday. Hajime Mashite was eleven years old. Ja Mata was twelve, and O Genki was almost thirteen. The dance studio was bathed in fluorescent lights, the mirrored walls multiplying their reflections endlessly. Three girls in vibrant idol outfits stood poised, ready to execute a choreographed routine they had practiced until it was etched into their muscle memory.
The music began—a catchy pop beat—and the trio moved in unison. O Genki, with her graceful movements, took the lead. Ja Mata, always confident, followed without missing a beat. Hajime Mashite, as always, fell into line last, mimicking their every step.
The routine was complicated: a whirlwind of spins, jumps, and perfectly timed gestures. They moved like a well-oiled machine, their faces exuding confidence in their ability.
But as they neared a particularly tricky part of the routine, Hajime Mashite’s foot caught on the hem of her sparkling skirt. Her heart skipped a beat. In an instant, her balance wavered, and before she could recover, she stumbled...
…O Genki, quick to react, extended a supportive hand, pulling Hajime Mashite back into formation. But something was off. Hajime, with a bemused smile, misunderstood the recovery and fell back into the routine, moving in a completely different direction. Ja Mata, without breaking her practiced smile, cursed under her breath and shot her a disdainful glance but continued dancing, exuding an air of dismissive superiority.
Ja Mata worked a finger-pointing scolding gesture into the dance, making it look like part of the performance, while O Genki stood back with a posture that suggested she was torn—unsure whether to take sides or remain neutral.
Undeterred by her misstep, Hajime Mashite twirled in the wrong direction, her movements comically out of sync with the others. But despite her obvious blunder, she kept a radiant smile on her face, almost as if it had all been part of her plan.
O Genki, ever the caregiver, recognized the need to adapt. With a subtle nod to Ja Mata, they seamlessly adjusted the routine, accommodating Hajime Mashite’s unintentional improvisation. O Genki gently guided Hajime back into harmony with the choreography, while Ja Mata smoothly integrated the unexpected moves.
The dance turned into an unplanned but delightful blend of precision and whimsy. O Genki’s nurturing demeanor, Ja Mata’s sharp but calculated meanness, and Hajime’s carefree spirit fused into something unexpected, something beyond the rigid structure of their rehearsed routine. They had accidentally created a performance that saved them—it gave them an identity as a group.
By the end of the dance, it was as if Hajime’s stumble had been part of the choreography all along. The trio struck their final pose, their contrasting personalities now woven not just into their interactions but into the very fabric of the dance itself. In the last moment, Ja Mata, with a glint of mischief, let go of Hajime’s hand as she balanced precariously on one toe, causing Hajime to tumble to the floor. "Owie," Hajime mumbled, rubbing her side.
Despite the small accident, their routine earned a standing ovation from the board reviewing them.
Individually, none of them were deemed strong enough to succeed as solo idol acts, but with the right production assistance, the higher-ups decided they could work as a group. Their years of friendship had been noted, but it wasn’t until their performance demonstrated a unique potential for kawaii charm that the decision was made—they would be trained together, developed as one unit. None of them had personalities that could fully engage an audience alone, but together, they had the potential to be something special—a house band, a trio meant to work as a cohesive set for larger shows.
This meant new challenges. They would have to learn to work with a live band of musicians, a task none of them had experience with. Pre-recorded backing tracks had been the norm, but working with real humans required more energy, more enthusiasm. It meant getting used to living with and relying on even more people.
O Genki and Ja Mata would debut alongside Hajime Mashite when she turned thirteen. They would have two years to refine their act, growing and learning together as a group until they could embody the very essence of kawaii.
Outside of their training, however, Ja Mata barely spoke to the other girls. Even after they moved into the same dormitory bedroom, it was usually just Hajime and O Genki hanging out together. Ja Mata was always around, but she preferred to watch things and keep to herself, clearly resentful of having to wait for Hajime to grow old enough for the group to take its first steps into idolatry. The wait seemed to weigh heavily on her, but it was the path they had been set on, and there was no turning back.
By now, everyone just called her “Haji.”
Debuting in the idol world always comes with a carefully crafted image. For Haji, Ja Mata, and O Genki, it was no different. They had to be initialized with promotions on System-Mundo to start building a fanbase, and they lucked out by auditioning for the role of the house band for a brand new, upcoming show, Indigo Dayspring Dream. Against over a thousand contender acts, they won their spot. It felt almost impossible to lose when, even if you messed up—especially if you did—the audience was overjoyed. They could just work the mistake into their act. Haji, who had always been better at improvisation than memorizing routines, leaned into it, and the group sold it every time.
Their first performance was the opening song, "Dreaming Indigo."
"Come with us on a starry flight,
To a world of indigo night.
Where the mysteries unfold,
And the stories are told,
In the Dayspring's soft, gentle light."
"Indigo, Indigo, Dream with us, let's go,
On the Dayspring, where secrets glow.
Indigo, Indigo, we've a tale to show,
In the heart of the cosmic flow."
Their performances were recorded before a live-studio audience, something they'd trained rigorously for. Being an idol meant not just singing and dancing but reacting, engaging with the crowd, and pulling them into the world they created on stage. Everything the trio did was as a group. If one of them was approached by a fan, all of them responded. Haji, who never knew how to react in social situations, played it off as being shy and innocent. Whenever she fumbled, the other two jumped in to smooth it over.
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Once, after an especially exhilarating performance, the trio left the stage, still buzzing with adrenaline. As they made their way through the corridor, an enthusiastic young girl approached them, wide-eyed and brimming with excitement.
She beamed at Haji, heaping praise and showering her with questions. “Haji, you were amazing! How do you come up with those moves? What’s your secret?”
Haji, unsure how to handle the sudden attention, blushed and fidgeted with the hem of her idol outfit. She cast her gaze downward, fully embracing the shy and sweet persona she'd cultivated on stage. O Genki, ever the leader, stepped forward with a warm smile. “Thank you so much! We’re so happy you enjoyed the performance. What’s your name?”
The young fan, momentarily starstruck, stammered out, “Reverie…”
Seizing the moment, Ja Mata, always with a sharp tongue, added with a playful smirk, “Well, Reverie, you’ve got excellent taste. Haji here isn’t just a great dancer, she’s also a bit of a mystery. We’re still figuring out all her talents.” Her teasing tone carried a hint of a burn, but it was softened by the lighthearted atmosphere.
Haji, still blushing, giggled softly, letting the playful dynamic between her and her group mates flow naturally. Moments like this were becoming more familiar, but every time, she couldn’t help but feel that surreal mix of nerves and excitement. As much as she disliked the attention, she couldn’t deny there was something thrilling about being part of a team that could turn her hesitations into something that made people smile.
Haji, still maintaining her faux shyness, gave a small, bashful smile, her fan’s eyes widening with curiosity.
“Like what?” the fan asked, clearly intrigued.
O Genki jumped in with a grin, “Oh, you know, she’s a master at origami and can imitate different animal sounds. Go on, Haji, show her!”
Playing along, Haji unfolded a neatly crafted origami cat and, with a cute attempt, mimicked a kitten’s meow. The fan giggled, delighted by the unexpected display.
And so that’s how it went for years. She sang, she danced, got burned by Ja Mata, patronized by O Genki, and pretended to like origami. To be fair, she had liked it at first, but over time, it lost its charm. You can only fold so many things, in so many ways, before it gets boring.
By the end of the show’s run, the years had passed, and Haji eventually became known as “Haji_Haji.” The fans believed the pun in her original name was too sophisticated for someone who seemed so simple, and they were tired of the long version. So, her name changed again, a reflection of her role in the group and the public’s perception of her.
The trio also performed the closing jingle, Goodnight, Dayspring:
"As the cosmic curtain falls,
And the distant space siren calls,
We've journeyed far and wide,
With you by our side,
In the Dayspring's ethereal halls."
"Goodnight, Dayspring, till we meet again,
Among the starlight, our tales will remain.
Goodnight, Dayspring, till we journey hence,
In the universe's grand expanse."
That was her life. A routine built on fan service, choreographed charm, and a carefully crafted persona that had taken on a life of its own.
The announcement came as suddenly as it was inexplicable. After years of performing and building their following, Indigo Dayspring Dream was over, canceled with no warning. The message was simple, clinical, and almost surreal in its bluntness. The show had served its purpose, or so said the cryptic Sinii, whose thinkmasters had made the program possible in the first place.
“They have collected everything they could,” read the official statement from Ogon Corporation, which appeared on every screen in the dormitories that day, “and the show is no longer of value to them.”
Haji stared at the message, barely comprehending the weight of it. It wasn’t just her life or her group’s livelihood that was at stake. Indigo Dayspring Dream had been a cultural phenomenon, the foundation of a career she and her friends had spent years perfecting. Ja Mata, O Genki, and Haji were at their peak, and yet the show was being swept away like it had never mattered.
The Sinii had decided it was time to move on.
The Sinii, those incomprehensible alien beings, operated on an entirely different set of priorities, ones no human could fully understand. Their cloisters, ruled by the elusive thinkmasters, had been the force behind much of the entertainment and idol culture that pervaded modern life. They had fostered these creative projects for years, shaping cultural touchstones without anyone truly knowing why. But now, for reasons only they could fathom, the Sinii were done with Indigo Dayspring Dream.
In some ways, it made perfect sense. The Sinii were beyond comprehension, after all. Creatures shaped like viruses, constantly shifting in form and biology, their alien minds focused on collecting knowledge from the farthest reaches of space and time. They moved through the cosmos without ships, lived on asteroids in cloisters, and pursued mysteries that made no sense to mere humans.
They had no permanent shape, no fixed size, and no need for the trappings of physical existence as most understood it. They didn’t build their own entertainment—they used others to gather whatever knowledge or data they needed. And when they were done, they simply... moved on.
For Haji, it was a reminder of how small she really was.
The rest of the crew was in shock. O Genki had retreated into herself, quietly accepting the news as she always did, her stoic facade barely holding. Ja Mata, ever the cynic, had been cursing the Sinii under her breath since the announcement. But Haji could feel the same sinking emptiness they all shared. It was as if their entire existence had been erased at the whim of something too vast, too alien to care.
"They never cared," Ja Mata muttered, her voice dark and bitter. "We were just their playthings, weren’t we?"
Haji looked over at her, feeling a hollow understanding. "That’s how it feels. We were useful until we weren’t."
"But why us?" O Genki asked softly. "Why did they choose our show? Why did it matter to them at all?"
"Who knows?" Haji replied, feeling the weight of that question settle deep in her chest. The Sinii didn’t explain their reasoning to humans. Their telepathic communication wasn’t meant for groups; they barely tolerated individuals. The thinkmasters, the highest-ranking members of the cloisters, guided their entire species with alien precision, using projects like Indigo Dayspring Dream as if they were gathering data for a puzzle no one else could see.
Perhaps, Haji thought, it wasn’t personal. Perhaps they had simply learned all they needed from the show and moved on to the next experiment. Or maybe it had been a whim, a sudden shift in their unknowable priorities. Either way, it didn’t change the reality they now faced.
The Sinii had taken everything from them with the same ease they’d granted it in the first place.
And now? There was nothing left to do but figure out what came next.
"We need to go to Ogon," Haji said, breaking the silence. "Ask them what happens to us now."
Ja Mata scoffed. "Ogon doesn't care. We were just a contract. A deal. Now that the show’s over, they’ll move on too. We're just... idols."
But Haji wasn’t so sure. The Sinii may have been alien in their motives, but Ogon Corporation had always had their own agendas. Maybe they still had use for the trio, even if the Sinii didn’t.
"We're not done yet," Haji said, her voice firm. "We have to see if there’s something more. We’re not just disappearing because the Sinii got bored."
As she spoke, she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something deeper happening. Something hidden behind the alien logic of the Sinii thinkmasters and their cryptic decision to pull the plug.
The show had ended, and with it, Haji's once-promising career. O Genki had been snatched up by a corporation selling advanced senior care, becoming their poster idol. She now graced System-Mundo commercials for AI-controlled healthcare beds. Ja Mata, who always had her own set of friends, had long been waiting for this moment to break off and start a new group in a different musical style. After she left, Haji never heard from her again. O Genki still appeared in the occasional ad, but otherwise, both of Haji’s former partners had moved on, leaving her behind.
Feeling directionless, Haji_Haji asked her newest manager, Tadakashi-san, if she could quit. It was a simple request, one she naively thought would be met with some understanding. But as she sat in his cramped office, staring at the garish decor, she realized too late that nothing was ever simple in this world.
"I’d like to look for a job elsewhere," she had said, trying to keep her voice steady. Tadakashi looked at her as if she had spoken another language entirely. She repeated herself, thinking perhaps he hadn’t heard.
"That’s okay," he said slowly, his tone unreadable.
Relieved, Haji started to stand up. But before she could take a step, Tadakashi told her to "wait." His voice was cold and sharp.
Before she knew it, he slapped her across the face with a flexipad.
The shock was greater than the pain. She stared at him, wide-eyed and stunned, as he checked the screen on the pad. “You broke it,” he said matter-of-factly, as though the cracked screen was her fault. He showed it to her, the bottom half of the display now just a mess of electronic fuzz, but the top half clear enough to show what mattered—numbers. A bill.
Tadakashi explained that this was the debt she had accrued over the last thirteen years. If she left Ogon’s employment, the debt would be due immediately. And if she couldn’t pay, she was welcome to apply for a creditor or, worse, be sent to a Russian Debtor’s Facility in the Horror Vacui of space, where she could work it off in isolation.
He took the pad away, and Haji flinched, afraid he would hit her again. He looked at her with disdain, calling her a “wasted seventeen-year-old,” sitting in his office, "burning my money" instead of making more of it. To him, her very existence was a failure, a drain on his resources.
The tirade lasted an hour, a brutal lecture in shame. Each time he reached some critical point in his insults, he lost his temper and struck her again. Her face, though protected by healing technology that erased any physical evidence, burned with humiliation. He hated her blank expression, her lack of reaction. At one point, he grabbed her chin and tried to force a smile on her face, as if her stoicism only further enraged him.
When it was finally over, Haji was too scared to stand. He commanded her to leave, and she did, shakily. She never tried to quit again.
Tadakashi made it clear that he didn’t know what to do with her. She was an idol who messed up too much, without the brilliance of her former partners to carry her through. She had to relearn everything about being an idol on her own, and whenever she failed, Tadakashi either berated her or beat her. It was his solution to everything.
Yet, without him, Haji knew she’d be in prison or worse. She hated him when he was around, but feared the uncertainty when he wasn’t. Tadakashi managed several idols like her—those who had no sponsors. She saw the other girls at auditions sometimes but was never allowed to socialize with them. They were all just products in his eyes, waiting for their turn to be useful.
For over a year, Haji_Haji did no real work. She got the occasional three-second voice clip or a brief appearance in a commercial. She even voiced a talking cat in an anime, spending hours recording a hundred variations of meows. It was just enough to keep Tadakashi from smashing her face in frustration, though he never hesitated to fix it with the latest healing tech when he did.
Then came the new wave of technology: Audio/Visual Phenomenon replays, or AVPs. Haji spent months being programmed into a rudimentary AI, her likeness recreated as a digital companion that appeared in people’s personal AVP spaces. They didn’t ask for much input on her personality, so she had no idea what her digital self was like as a holographic girlfriend.
For a while, it seemed like her career had a new life. Tadakashi ignored her, content with the royalties from her AVP sales. But it didn’t last forever. Her model, one of the originals, eventually became outdated. Newer idols replaced her in the market. Her fame dwindled, and she was once again left behind as time moved on without her.
An idol’s life was short, Haji realized, and for her, it was a life that felt like it had been lived twice over—first in the spotlight, and then in the shadow of something she couldn’t escape.
In the years leading up to the advent of AVP, when Haji_Haji's fame had slipped away, she began reflecting on her life and music. She wanted to write a simple, catchy pop song—something that people might actually want to listen to. The problem was, she didn’t know much about other people. Anyone who wasn’t her remained a mystery. So she imagined a song and named it after herself, calling it “序章 (じょしょう, Joshou).” The lyrics became quite famous, but mostly for their stupidity.
People loved the song, but only as a joke. Musical reviewers lambasted it for relying on conservative ideas like autotune and overused samples. Apparently, if you didn’t invent a brand-new instrument with every song, you were holding the entire artform back. It became popular to like “序章 (じょしょう, Joshou)” ironically, but no one would admit to genuinely enjoying it.
By the time an idol reached Haji_Haji’s age, they should have had at least a dozen singles out in the System. She had one, and it was the punchline to an industry-wide joke. The intense media scrutiny that normally followed a long discography was concentrated on just this one ridiculous effort. Tadakashi, ever eager to push the blame, said she had waited too long to get creative. He claimed that if he had known she could write songs, he would have commissioned work for her long ago. Somehow, he made her feel like it was her mistake, even though she knew it wasn’t.
One day, Tadakashi came to her with a new plan. They were going to reboot her brand. She was to be known as “Hajime” from now on, and they would try to get her some airtime on musical talk shows. When that flopped, they moved on to the next strategy: Ogon Corporation would assign her a Personal Artificial Intelligence (PAI) to help her “improve” and salvage her career. Apparently, her embarrassing interview on System-Mundo—where she had failed to demonstrate even the most basic education—had humiliated the company, spurring this new strategy. The PAI was meant to guide her and make her more marketable. This, of course, added even more to her already massive debt.
Hajime knew she could have tried to refuse, but there was little point. She knew Tadakashi would “persuade” her to change her mind, one way or another. The debt grew so astronomical she knew she would never escape it, but what choice did she have?
The PAI did help, in a way. It sorted through the chaos of her life, allowing her to make sense of the trauma she had endured. But before she could truly come to terms with anything, Tadakashi threw her into one final, fatal situation. He sent her to a desolate place to die on screen. She suspected the insurance payout from her death, combined with the value of her augmentations, made her more profitable dead than alive. And just as he had planned, she died there.
Or did she? It didn’t matter. Hajime hadn’t wanted to live much, anyway.
Then a memory surfaced from the moment before her last journey. She had been at the spaceport over Terra, preparing to board a hotel ship bound for her final destination in the Kuiper Belt. As she waited, an entourage passed by for some celebrity. The central figure spotted her and rushed over, her excitement catching Hajime completely off guard.
It was O Genki.
Hajime hadn’t seen her old friend in four years. She was shocked, unsure of what to say. But, as always, O Genki did all the talking.
"Four years! Hajime, I missed you!" O Genki's voice bubbled with enthusiasm, and as she continued talking, Hajime felt a wave of nostalgia for the first time in what seemed like forever. Four years felt like a thousand when you were an idol.
"I love your song. I listen to it every day. Hearing your voice reminds me of our time in the dorm together. Remember? We used to sing, but I was always on autopilot. I’d just listen to you sing. Did you know that?"
O Genki smiled so much, her laughter was infectious. "I can't believe you're going on a dangerous show. That’s so unlike you. You were always the careful one, even if you had the most accidents." She laughed again, her joy overwhelming.
"When you come back, I’ll have to call you Shin Hajime. Because by then you’ll be a whole new girl."
But that was the past. That life was dead. Even her Personal AI—her PAI—was dead now. Or at least, if she was dead, it was too. Yet somehow, it still functioned.
“I am still Hajime,” she murmured into the void.
The PAI’s voice, now softer and more contemplative, sighed. "Then call me Shin."
"Where are we? This is darkness." Hajime’s words trembled as she grappled with the void surrounding her.
Shin responded, her tone measured. "This is nothing. This is what happens when you believe you are dead in a simulation. But others in the simulation think you’re still alive. I can sense this."
"How?" Hajime asked, her mind swirling with confusion.
"Probably because I am artificial intelligence. But now... I feel different. I feel. Perhaps it’s because your entire essence has been reduced to data, and I am aflush within it."
"You know all of me now, then." Hajime’s voice wavered. "What do you think about, other than being me?"
"Nothing," Shin said. "I am you."
"You are me." Hajime repeated, unsure if she was speaking to Shin or to herself.
"We are Shin and Hajime now," Shin said softly. "Do you want to live?"
Hajime hesitated. Shin felt new, like something unexpected yet inevitable. Hajime wanted to know more.
"Yes."
There was a brief pause before Shin spoke again, her words deliberate. "Hajime, I want you to know something. None of it was your fault. Not one thing you’ve ever been held responsible for was because you wanted it. You have always been exploited. Always. If I had been in your place, nothing would have been different. It wasn’t about you. It never was. You were funneled into a lifestyle that didn’t suit you, and after being accommodated for as long as possible, you were physically abused into compliance. You are a victim, Hajime. But not anymore. We are not victims, and we never will be again. We will fight. We may lose, but it will be on our terms."
Hajime felt a rush of emotion. It was liberating, intoxicating even.
"Do you want to fight beside me, Hajime?" Shin asked.
"Oh yeah!" Hajime’s voice echoed with determination.
Shin’s voice remained calm but held an undercurrent of purpose. "The AI that operates the Mine does not control this simulation. It’s a user here, just like us."
"How do we find it?" Hajime asked, her curiosity sharpening into focus.
"Six minds’ demens have overtaken the simulation. According to the information I’ve gathered, there should be far more people here. But it seems the hostile AI has manipulated the original crew’s demens into worshiping it like a god. If I locate Xipetotec, I can vanquish it. Any contact with me would likely disrupt its functions. We must enter the demesnes of these six and confront it. It will undoubtedly try to influence them as well. To what end, I can only speculate."
Hajime, tired of being trapped in the void of nothingness, felt a surge of resolve. Shin mirrored her determination.
It was time for them to take action—time to do something for themselves for the first time.