Content warning: This story contains content relating to drug use (needles) and child endangerment.
…
Fuck the fans,
Fuck the song,
Fuck the band,
It’s all Fucking wrong!
Inez spat the final lyrics out at the screaming crowd as the cacophony of their concert came to a crashing conclusion. Ryō took the closing number as an opportunity to solo, shredding harsh and discordant notes on her guitar. The other bandmates gradually petered out their playing, but Ryō kept going, spinning around in circles faster and faster until xe smoothly unclasped the strap and threw his instrument out into the audience. The crowd went wild, and the band gave them the middle finger, only eliciting more cheers.
Inez and the other band members exited stage left, leaving Ryō onstage. Ze knocked over the mic stand, producing a harsh feedback that made everyone wince, and kicked in the bass drum, before joining her bandmates in the green room.
They, the bandmates, were all drenched in sweat and seated in the green room’s bohemian assortment of chairs. Water bottles were passed around, with everyone taking gulping swigs. They, Ryō, came in, still full of energy. “Fucking great tonight. We showed them.” xe said, as ey gathered a few weak high-fives from her bandmates.
Inez held her hands up, gesturing for Ryō to take it down a notch. He flipped her the third digit in response. But nonetheless, they snatched up a proffered water bottle, and flopped down into an empty papasan, savouring the afterglow of a show well done.
The venue manager burst into the room like a hollow-point, tearing apart the good mood. “What the fuck!” A string of other expletives followed. “Where is that jancuk!?” Ryō threw a mostly-empty water bottle at him, and the manager rounded on Ryō. “You! That guitar you threw into the audience hit a kid! She’s bleeding bad. We had to call paramedics.”
“What’s a kid doing at the show? Thought this gig was adults only,” interjected Inez.
“Not the fucking point!” The manager turned to Inez. “The point is if she sues the venue, I’m taking that money outta you.”
Ryō blew a raspberry. “Whatever, she’ll probably just sell that guitar for a couple mil. That’ll make up for any medical bills.”
“And you!! I’ll see to it you never play Kali again!”
Ryō made a jerk-off motion at the manager as he stormed back out.
“He’s kinda got a point.” whispered Inez.
Ryō scoffed. “Pssht! He doesn’t have that kind of reach. He’s just waving his dick around.”
“I meant about wrecking our gear every night.”
“What? Fuck the gear. That’s what Trash Metal is all about.”
“Don’t tell me what my music is about. We got an offer to open at Gemilang for Cold Shoulder. We can’t be smashing our toys like babies every show.”
Ryō leapt out of her chair at the name. “You booked us for Gemilang!? Without asking me!?” Xe towered over Inez. “Fuck you, Innie! You’ve been undermining me from day one!”
“Ryō, calm your tits!” Susi got out of her seat and used her drumsticks to push Ryō back from Inez.
“Fuck you corpos! Open for Cold Shoulder, see if I care!” And with that, Ryō stormed from the green room, and out into the sticky, humid Kalimantan night.
Ryō found emself back in their rented apartment, a grocery bag pregnant with fresh bottles of arak, brem, ciu, and cap tikus squatted on the kitchen counter. One bottle of baiju sat open and empty beside Ryō, who was currently trying to tie a guitar-string tourniquet around xir left arm. Once he thought ze had it tight enough, could see a vein, they injected the stims.
Almost immediately, a pleasant buzz fizzled beneath the muffling numbness of the drink. The chemically achieved balance left Ryō in a state of tranquility. For the first time that night, ey found himself feeling clearheaded, sharp but not raw, present but not bored. It wondered if this was how the vulgares felt. That elicited a sharp laugh. As if she could ever know what it was like to be commonfolk. Ze had been raised to be a star, and stars burned. It hurt, but that was the cost, the burden, of greatness. That was the one lesson xe had had drilled into him at Nebula: the price of fame was pain.
Nebula had sought to control Ryō, to fit Ryō’s star into one of the little constellations of idol groups. But that suffocating control had nearly killed the old R******, and Ryō was going to make sure that never happened again. No one would ever have that kind of power over Ryō, any power. And the only way to ensure that was to destroy.
She pulled out her console from under a mountain of filthy clothes and empty beer bottles. It was a vintage ’17 Pondsmith Telecharger, blood orange, until Ryō had smashed it to bits at a show. Now, the body was stuffed with myriad cybernetics, chips, and other hardware. Various circuitry and wires ran along the jagged neck like strings. The pickup still worked fine, and Ryō plugged a BMI cable from it to the skulljack on the back of their neck.
Most people saw the Net; Ryō heard it. Navigated it by audio only. Xe could parse the raw screeching of pure signal. She swam in it, let it carry them to where it wanted to go. Gemilang. To Ryō, the Netspot sounded like the false applause of petty fans, but as soon as he got too close, the cheers turned to boos and hisses. Decibel by decibel it grew, hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands of angry voices, shouting, yelling, raging, and beneath it all, a deep bass rumble, drums driving an army to war. Music to zir ears. Ryō had wanted to fight.
The chorus of rage crescendoed towards Ryō. It surrounded Ryō, like a tornado, its discord threatening to disharmonize eir very mind. All throughout it, Ryō bore the noise with masochistic pleasure, focusing their thoughts on nothing but the thrumming tattoo beneath the roaring voices. She synchronized with it, her sound, her avatar, beating in rhythm with the bass. Ryō echoed, amplified that drumming, each beat growing louder than the last, until their syncopathy was louder than the clangor that tore at xir thoughts. When the symphony reached a pitch, Ryō shifted their beat, hitting further and further off tempo. The drumming began to falter, distorting into meaningless feedback, soon tearing itself apart in catastrophic desynchronization.
And all at once, the storm dissipated. Ryō was left with the gentle buzzing hum of transactions being processed, bookings being made, and credits being collected. She swelled with satisfaction. He was in. Gemilang’s main servers. Ryō’s noise took over, and ze became the storm once again, shredding records, transposing accounts to eir own, muting real gigs and improvising new ones. When the chaos was done, Gemilang’s booking database was in shambles. It groaned under the weight of destruction, like the swan song of a sinking ship.
Ryō jacked out, and visuals gradually returned to them. Her drugs were wearing off, and ze was beginning to crash. He went upstairs and undressed, ripping the duct-tape binding off eir breasts, a last rush of sensation, before collapsing onto its dirty mattress. Finally, he felt safe enough to fall asleep.
Shred
Anarch Event: Run
Play cost: 1 – Influence cost: 1
Run any server. The first time the Corp would end that run, prevent the run from ending unless the Corp reveals and trashes X cards from HQ at random. X is equal to the number of cards in the root of the attacked server.
The volume is the message.
Illustrated by Wilson Nugraha (Polar Engine)
Join us in Kota Kalimantan when Elevation releases on April 24th 2025!
