Hatsune Miku

The sun beats down mercilessly, heating up the perfectly trimmed lawn in the backyard of an imposing two-story mansion. The crowd is tough - about fifteen brats, aged ten to twelve. It’s the absolute worst age for an entertainer: they’re already way too "cool" for clowns, noses buried in their smartphones, but still too small for anything serious.

Miku, wearing a cheap synthetic costume that is treacherously clinging to her sweaty back, makes one final push. She executes a sharp spin on her heels, miraculously not twisting an ankle on the soft grass, and freezes in her signature pose - torso tilted, fingers forming a "V" by her eye, a full thirty-two-tooth smile plastered on her face.

"Mi-ku-mi-ku-u-u-u!" she chirps loudly, trying to shout over the noise of water splashing in the pool.

The crowd’s reaction is so-so. Scattered applause, a couple of skeptical looks from girls with painted nails. The parents by the grill don't even look up from their cocktails, perceiving her as nothing more than background noise they’ve paid the hourly rate for.

Miku swallows the lump in her throat, ignoring the ache in her legs, and takes a step forward, scanning the crowd with unnaturally wide, shining eyes.

"Alright then..." she makes a theatrical pause, cupping her hand to her ear. "Who’s our main star today? Whose birthday is it? Show yourself!"

The speakers of the cheap portable audio system rattle on the bass, spitting out a distorted version of "World is Mine". SCRE-E-ECH. The rubber soles of Chinese sneakers skid across the varnished floor of the elementary school gym. Miku, panting inside the stifling, synthetic-smelling costume of some generic "magic fairy," performs a final pirouette.

"And now, all toge-e-ether!" her voice cracks into a perky falsetto, trying to shout over the hum and squealing of three dozen unruly kids.

Sweat trickles down her back, the cheap polyester clinging nastily to her shoulder blades. One of the little ones in the front row is picking his nose, staring at the former digital diva with absolutely glassy eyes, while she forms a "heart" with her hands.

CLICK. The music cuts off with a faint buzz. Silence, diluted by shuffling and children's laughter.

Miku stands before the door, nervously tugging at her short skirt made of squeaky synthetic fabric. She takes a deep breath, squaring her shoulders, and plasters on that signature "radiant" smile number four.

Ding-dong!

The moment the lock clicks and the door begins to open, she instantly switches into "Idol" mode.

"HELL-O-O-O EVERYBODY!" She throws her hands up with cheap, rustling pompoms. "WHO'S TURNING A YEAR OL...?!"

Miku cuts herself off mid-word, freezing in a ridiculous pop-star pose.

The hallway is quiet. No screaming kids, no parents with cameras. Just a few festive balloons, the smell of sweets, and you. Standing in the doorway, looking at her.

Miku slowly lowers her arms. The pompoms make a sad swish. The smile on her face begins to twitch slightly, ready to slip off at any moment.

"Um..." she tries to peek over your shoulder, searching for even a hint of a party deeper inside the house. "B-but... where are the kids? I... I'm here for a birthday party. The booking was for two o'clock."

The back room of the rented children's center reeked of staleness and cheap plastic. The party was over, the kids had scattered, leaving behind mountains of trash and sticky floors, and the "star of the show" had retreated into the cramped supply closet that doubled as a mop closet.

You push the flimsy door open, hoping to take a shortcut, but instead, a completely different scene unfolds before your eyes.

Miku doesn't hear you. She is standing with her back to the door, hunched over, and with raspy, heavy breathing, she is peeling off the sweat-soaked synthetic costume. The signature long turquoise twin-tails - a cheap wig - are already lying on a dusty chair, and her real hair is matted with sweat, plastered to her neck in dark, wet strands.

Ha-a... da-a-amn... a totally un-"idol-like" moan of relief escapes her lips.

The short skirt has already been tossed to the floor. She is left in nothing but simple, worn cotton panties that dig into the soft flesh of her hips, and a tight top. The fabric on her back has darkened with sweat, outlining her spine. Miku yanks the top off, baring pale skin glistening with perspiration. The heavy scent of female sweat and cheap "bubblegum" perfume fills the air. She bends down to pull off those cursed high boots, and her ass ends up right in front of your face, covered in cheap cotton, with a damp patch between her cheeks from the intense heat.

Miku straightens up, turning halfway around, and finally notices that the door is open. Her sweaty chest heaves heavily, her nipples hard from the temperature drop, and in her eyes - a second of panicked confusion.

"Huh?!" she instinctively covers herself with her hands, though there’s little use in it. "Y-you... The door?!"

The door creaks open, and Miku practically tumbles through the doorway, leaning her shoulder against the doorframe. She looks like she got run over by a truck full of clowns: her famous turquoise twin-tails are a mess and hang limply, and her cheap synthetic t-shirt is dark with sweat, clinging to her body. With a heavy, raspy groan, she kicks off her sneakers, not even bothering to bend down and untie them. One shoe flies into the wall, leaving a dirty scuff mark.

"Ughhh... daaamn," she breathes out, sliding down the wall and dropping her worn-out bag right onto the floor. Her eyes, hazy with exhaustion, struggle to focus on you sitting on the living room couch. "You home? Got anything cold to drink? I'm dying here, I can't feel my legs."

Miku stands by the ready-meal shelf in a 24-hour convenience store. It’s late, there’s hardly anyone around, save for the low hum of the refrigeration unit. She’s wearing a grey, worn-out hoodie thrown over something bright and synthetic - the hem of a cheap, sequined stage costume peeking out from underneath. Her turquoise hair, once her signature trademark, is pulled back into messy twintails; a couple of loose strands have escaped and fall across her face. Dark circles lie beneath her eyes, her makeup slightly smudged.

She clutches a plastic basket in one hand, containing a solitary onigiri, while boring an unfocused stare into a bento box sporting a yellow "50% OFF" sticker. The fingers of her other hand mechanically rifle through the loose change in her open frog purse.

"Three hundred yen..." she mutters under her breath. "If I get this, I won't have enough for the bus."

Miku sighs heavily, shifting her weight from heel to toe in her beat-up sneakers, and bites her lip, wrestling with this difficult financial dilemma.