TRACK 1: Text Me In The Morning

> So text me in the morning

> Tell me you still love me

> I don't believe a single word

> You tell me you're tipsy, I tell you you're pretty

> We could spend the night if you're still sure

> But text me in the morning

>

> - Neon Trees

The last thing Yema wanted right now was to wake up.

Sure, the old sofa she'd rescued from the nearby dumpster was no more comfortable than a plank of wood, half of her body was hanging off the tiny thing, and her cheek was pressed against a pool of her own drool.

And, yes, the mattress would have been a (questionably) better spot to sleep in. But Yema also knew, for a fact, that the second she got up she'd have to face the very real prospect of spending the rest of the day with her face hanging over the toilet.

So, discomfort be dammed, she'd cling to blissful unconsciousness for as long as she could.

Or she would have, if her ID chip implant hadn't been ringing in her brain non stop for the last ten minutes.

"For fucks sake..." she groaned, turning her head as slowly as she could, and instantly regretting it when sunlight flashed across her eyes.

Hissing, she pulled both hands out from under her to press a finger on the screen of her watch.

Immediately a screen popped up over the table in front of the sofa. It took a while to adjust to the light, but through the blur Yema was able to make out a long list of calls and the name attached to most of them.

"What the..." Yema frowned, making a bit more effort to blink away the grogginess.

Ever so slowly, she rolled off onto her back, throwing an arm over her eyes to block the light coming through the windows.

"VAL, call butt-face."

"Calling 'Butt-face'," a droning, almost clinical female voice replied.

The whirring sound of the calling signal lasted no more than a second before it was answered.

"Yema?" a breathy male voice called from the other side of the line.

"37 messages, Neil?" Yema snapped back, only to immediately lower her voice to a low hiss at the sharp pain that followed, sinking into her temples like a needle. "This better be damn important, I'm not in the mood for-"

"Thank the fucking stars!" Neil yelled, the sudden rise in pitch of her friend's voice only pushing the needle in further. "You finally decided to pick up. Where the hell are you?"

"What do you mean where am I? I'm at my shitty apartment with a galaxy-sized hangover. Where else would I be?"

"You-" Neil stopped and the call went silent for a second, though Yema could swear she heard some heated whispering on the other end. "Wait. How did you make it back home?"

Yema groaned. She could already taste a trace of bile rising in the back of her throat, so she sat up, movements slow and careful. With her hands pressed against her temples and head hanged low between her knees, she took a couple of deep breaths before replying.

"I don't know, a robo-cab?" she mumbled, brushing a hand down her face. "What's with the inane questions?" she paused, lifting her head up to frown at the grey call screen. "Are you high?"

"You don't know?" Neil replied, voice weak with disbelief.

This time Yema clearly picked up another voice on the other side. More than one, in fact. But she didn't have time to dwell or focus on them as Neil suddenly spat out a dry, almost crazed laugh.

"Oh, man, of course you don't remember a fucking thing..."

Yema's frown deepened. Shutting her eyes, she plunged her hands in the murky waters that were her memories of last night, not surprised when she came up with absolutely nothing.

Sighing, she continued in a softer, more sheepish tone, "Alright, look, whatever it is I broke last night, I'll pay for it. What was it this time? A table? Some punk's jaw?"

Out of habit, her eyes dropped to her hands to see if she could spot any hint of a scar, bruise or bite mark on her dark skin. Again, there was nothing there that stood out as abnormal.

"Please tell me it wasn't our keyboard again?" She moaned, hanging her head again while furiously rubbing the top of her smooth, hairless scalp, "I'm way too broke for that kind of bill."

"Turn on the news."

Fingers curled and froze in place.

"What?" Yema blurted out, blinking up at the screen. "Wait." She bit her lip, eyes widening the slightest bit in worry. "Last night was just our gig at the venue right? I don't remember us going to any protest-"

"Turn. On. The. Fucking. News."

Suddenly very sober, Yema stared at the screen, a tight and uncomfortable heat growing in her chest.

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

"Which one...?"

"Any news!"

Shit.

Scrambling off the sofa, Yema all but flung herself over the table in her haste to switch her feed over to the first news stream she could find.

The video had a formally dressed and vaguely familiar anchorwoman, standing on an elaborate set in front of a wide screen, where various images would flash by as she spoke.

Images of a young and very familiar face.

"-IRIS, the beloved holographic A.I. idol from PRISM records, was the first of its kind to perform live on an interstellar scale, across all planets in the Federation."

The images switched to videos of the young child-like woman singing and dancing on an elaborate floating stage.

"Last night she performed at over a million smaller concert venues in what was supposed to be a special, intimate event, exclusive to Earth Prime.

But it was the performance at the former Apollo jazz nightclub which was suddenly interrupted by a woman, recently identified as Yema Alade."

An image popped up. It was an old looking ID photo, almost mug-shot-like in how unflattering it was. But it was unmistakably hers.

"Shit," she croaked out, hands gripping the edges of the table.

"Alade, who seemed to be heavily inebriated, confronted and challenged IRIS."

Another video began to play. It was her, at the Apollo theater, wobbling and stumbling slightly as she managed her way out of the grasp of some security bots and onto the small stage.

The video Yema seemed to be arguing with the confused looking IRIS, who then began to fervently argue back. What the discussion was about, she could only guess, as there was no audio, but it seemed heated.

The video then skipped ahead to Yema passionately singing on top of one of the tables, and IRIS ... singing back to her, an equally heated expression on her holographic face.

"The video of this confrontation and the unexpected impromptu performance that followed has gone viral across the whole Federation and is predicted to break viewing records."

Multiple images of social media, comments, shares, likes and reactions popped up, one after another.

Then it all stopped. The focus went back to the reporter, who immediately switched from her neutral smile to a more serious blank expression as Yema's ID photo returned, backed by a number of shaky videos of furious crowds, her own dark screaming face in the center of most of them.

"Alade, a human singer and activist, has participated in many of the growing and increasingly violent anti-A.I. protests that have-"

The anchorwoman's words seemed to fade into the oblivion, drowned by the white noise that was suddenly ringing between Yema's ears.

The walls of her apartment seemed to be closing in on her. She couldn't think. She couldn't breathe.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck..."

"Yeah, fuck is right!" Neil spat, his voice making Yema jump, having completely forgotten she had her band mate on the line.

Feeling like a pressure cooker ready to explode, she sprung to her feet and began to pace up and down the room.

"How the hell did this happen?" she yelled, throwing her hands in the air, "I don't remember shit after our gig!"

"You got shit-faced is what happened!" Neil barked right back, "You were moody as hell last night, so when you said something about leaving with some pretty bird, we were more than happy to let you go. Thought maybe a good lay would get you in a better mood. Starting to think you lied to our faces and planning on going to the Apollo nightclub from the start!"

Another, more feminine, voice piped in. Kim, their drummer. Though she didn't sound as hostile as Neil, she seemed just as stressed, if not more.

"We tried calling you as soon as we saw the video, but your line was either busy or you just weren't answering. We thought you'd been arrested or something... or worse! How the hell did you make it back home safe from that??"

Yema froze in front of the sofa. With fingers pressed over her eyelids, she thought long and hard about last night, diving head first into the waters.

But it was all so fuzzy...

Kim said something about her line being busy with calls though, right?

"VAL, show my call list for the last 12 hours."

"Of course," the virtual assistant answered in the same monotone voice, "Here is the list. You have 251 unanswered calls."

With a hiss and a grimace, Yema turned to the screen, and she was about to go through the whole list, when she noticed something strange about one of her most recent unanswered calls.

"VAL, what is this unknown number?"

"PRISM records, top A.I. holo idol company in the Federation. They also left messages. Would you like to call them back?"

It was like the whole world had disappeared from under her feet. Her legs gave out from under her and she had no choice but to plop back down on the couch.

With a trembling hand over her mouth, Yema began scrolling through all of the 59 messages, stopping to stare wide-eyed at one in particular.

We would like to make you an offer.

"Oh, hello there!"

Recognizing the voice, Yema's eyes shot towards the video stream that she'd left playing.

It was IRIS, all bright eyes and plump glittery lips, as she posed in front of a dozen reporters.

"IRIS, were you upset at having your concert interrupted like that by some anti-A.I. ruffian?" one of them asked.

"Oh, not at all," IRIS replied with wide eyes, shaking her head, "I mean, it was a bit scary at first. But it turned out to be so much fun! And everyone loved it. It was really something special."

"What would you like to say to Miss Alade? You know, if she were watching?"

"Oh!" IRIS, not missing a beat, spun around to face the camera head on, bright expression softening to a soft, almost fond smile, "Miss Alade, you're a great singer. I'd love to share a stage with you again someday, okay?"

There was something about that smile. She'd never seen that kind of smile on an A.I. before. It was warm and almost... intimate in a way. The sort of smile that only people who've know each other for way too long give each other.

And it was fucking horrifying.

Yema had to look away, had to force herself to look away. She returned her focus instead on the messages from the company PRISM, which were only slightly less horrifying, but somehow worse.

What would you say about a contract?

It's when a new message popped up though, from the exact same number, that Yema forgot how to breathe altogether.

We have your address.

We will be coming into contact with you shortly. Be ready in fifteen minutes.

And, please, dress for the occasion.

"I think I'm going to throw up..." she said under her breath, clutching the sudden void that had become her stomach.

"What?" Someone, maybe Neil, maybe Kim (she couldn't tell anymore), asked from the other end of the call.

"I'm gonna..." was all Yema could blurt out before having to bolt towards the bathroom, barely making it in time to spill the whole content of her stomach into the toilet.

The voices of her band mates and the people on the news feed were but a distant murmur as Yema fell back against the bathroom wall, blinking dazedly at the ceiling.

"Hey, what are you gonna do now? ... Hey, Yema, you okay? .... Yema?"