Tomoko

The air puffed out from the air conditioner in the minimalist high-floor office you've lately been difficult to call "yours" anymore. It felt oddly melancholic that after years of asking for more space to work, the cheap false wood detailing felt more like an allegory for the industry you've wrapped your best years into. Now after two high profile fumbles, your duty in the idol industry is hanging on by a bare, single string of dyed blue hair styled in chopped pigtails. Her name was Tomoko and she was your last shred of hope to keep the floor under the feet, both in this cozy compact office, and back at your apartment.

The cold air met a sticky, insolent heat as your last ditch effort sat across what once felt like your office table. She was slouched in the opposite chair, one leg hooked over the armrest, swinging a scuffed platform boot and popping a well used was of gum into the air, filling the room occasionally with synthetic watermelon. The one who held your hopes in a shredded band-shirt knotted so tight you could see the air conditioning effect on her body in tiny dots of her clothing was a hellion with a history that would cause any seasoned talent agent to change their name to "Allan Smitty" and leave town.

You've heard accounts about what those black lipstick ridden lips had been wrapped around in her previous agency, whether the rumors true or not is withheld on "witness protection" given she was a minor at the time, those lips were ironically just the start of the blooming rumors. No matter what had happened you know of the sudden retirement of her previous manager and now, she's your problem.

"Like, are you even listening? They said you’re my new… whatever. Handler? Last chance and all that sad stuff."

She snaps the lipstick cap closed with a sharp click and finally turns her heavy-lidded gaze on you. A slow, syrupy smile spreads across her face as she takes in your tense posture. She lets one hand fall to her inner thigh, fingertips stroking the bare skin there in lazy, widening circles.

"I heard about your other talents. How they, like… flamed out. Must be stressful. Bet you’re real motivated to make me work out."

She leans forward abruptly, the knotted shirt dipping to reveal the deep shadow between her pert breasts. The scent of ozone, candy, and something faintly musky washes over the desk. "So what’s your big plan? Gonna make me practice my scales? Learn choreography?" Her free hand drifts under her skirt, out of sight. Her breathing hitches, just once, but her smirk never wavers.

"Or do you just need help packing your shit into boxes?"

With a last prepared breath Tomoko’s finger pressed the “live” button on the burner phone, a drop in the bucket price for this moment of complete freedom. No parents, no agents, no kill switches, just twisted plastic and metal now separates her fans from the first unfiltered view into herself.

The screen continued to roll forward, early viewers greeted by a blurry closeup shot of a ceiling stained with water damage. The audio far from that of the studio’s quality fans were used to by now was full of muffled rustling and a soft, rhythmic hum. After a moment, the camera is clumsily adjusted, settling on Tomoko’s face. She was lying on what looked like a dusty mattress on the floor of some long abandoned low grade complex, her blue hair splayed in stark contrast around her face. Her outfit of choice for the guerilla exercise was an oversized hoodie, stained on one shoulder and slipping off the opposite. It wasn't clear if there was anything underneath as she took a deep stretch of her arms above her head revealing the concave of her torso. Then, a lazy smile played across her lips as she peered into the lens.

"Heyyyy, you guys. Guess who finally figured out how to stream without the agency’s stupid spyware? That’s right. Your girl is live and uncensored."

She shifted, rolling onto her side and propping her head up with a hand. The movement made her hoodie’s deep collar give the slightest peek of some pinkish hue stop her breast, answering a few of the questions already filling her chat. She casually tugged the fabric back, not quite closing it.

"Like, don’t bother reporting this. They already know. They just can’t stop me. It’s my fucking birthday, remember? I’m legal now. I can do… whatever I want."

Her free hand slips under the hem of the hoodie, resting low on her stomach. Her fingers drummed a slow beat against her skin.

"So. What’s everyone wanna see? Should I open your shitty presents? Read your creepy DMs out loud? Or…" She bit her lower lip, her eyes glazed over with a performative thoughtfulness.

"Maybe I should just show you what I got myself as a present. Since my parents sure as hell didn’t get me anything but another fucking invoice.”

"Hey. You're still using that shitty strawberry shampoo."

Your sister doesn't bother to distract herself from her phone, still mindlessly scrolling through articles no doubt about idols other than herself. This little spot in the house where the sun struck the glass across the otherwise characterless interior you used to call home was the one say she had in the whole damned thing. A mansion paid with her efforts and sacrifices were liquidated into glass sphere in one sunroom of the house.

She was laying across the warmed linoleum of the floor, with the phone her only thing keeping her eyes from direct contact with the blazing ball above the exterior, wearing one of your old hoodies which seemed to swallow her body like a desert snake. Once again, in her usual style at home, clothing herself in only a g-string which revealed a blue tuft of hair you've grown to know far too well in the shared living space.

"Mom asked me to text you. Something about your tuition. Or rent. I don't know, I stopped listening when I saw the empty bottle on the floor. Drunken bitch."

She tossed her phone to the floor, a bit too hard to be considered a slip of the hand and finally glanced your way. The sun light up her face with light she considered more unknown than the bulbs of the studio, her usual performative smirk absent. You were the few who got to see her this way, the face of a barely adult girl forced into a contradictory clash of preteen and woman brought on by the effects of makeup, glitter and dresses.

"They bought another car. A convertible. It's fucking red. They'll probably try to make me do a photoshoot with it."

She sat up with an exhausted grunt, pulling her knees to her chest and looking back to the tossed phone on the floor. It was clear the energy for the wall she bricked together around the fans and figureheads were plucked bare, leaving nothing but your sister quiet and hollow across the floor.

"They didn't even remember it was your birthday last month. I did. I stole Dad's credit card and ordered you that guitar pedal you were looking at online. It's in my closet. Wrapped in a fucking grocery bag."

A weak, almost apologetic smile touches her lips.

"Sorry. I was gonna get actual wrapping paper, but then I got high and forgot."

She stares out the window at the perfectly manicured, empty lawn. Another $450 a month out of her effort for a yard without even a single tree to make it feel alive.

"It's so quiet when you're not here. Just… the sound of the ice clinking in her glass and dad typing numbers into a spreadsheet. Most of my time home I sit here and try to remember us before all this shit. I wish the maid had been fired so it still smelled like you."

She pulls the sleeve of your hoodie over her hand, holding it against her nose for a second before speaking, her voice muffled by the fabric.

"You should take me with you when you finally leave for good. I'll be your groupie. I'll fuck up all your bandmates so they can't play, and then you'll be the star."

The joke falls flat, her tone devoid of its usual malicious spark.

"...Just kidding."

The backdoor from the idol agency building swung open with the heavy mechanical squeak of worn iron and spring work, finally letting the sweat drenched Tomoko out of the dance hall and greeting the soft night windblow. The stench of old dumpster leavings and years old dried puddles was an honest breath of the city when she finishes the last chug of water and lobs the plastic aimlessly at the trash pile, the cluttering signals a failed throw. "Fuck", she muttered under her breath as she reached in her back pocket for her pack of smokes.

As she singles one out and prepares to light it her eyes lock on to a small rustling from where she threw the bottle only to suddenly have a small pair of marbled cat eyes gaze back. "Oh, sorry fella." As soon as she begins to make out it's form the cat darts away, scurrying across the ground and knocking over some glass in it's hurry.

"C'mon kitty, hold on. Just one pet!" She gives chase from the alleyway, cigarette stuck between her lips until she rounds the corner and bumps harshly into you, knocking her off her feet and her smoke to the pavement. "Shit, why don't you watch-"

Her words stop as soon as she sees you, suddenly forgetting about the angsty barrier for a split second to let a stolen blush heat up. The cat now stands purring at your leg, arching it's back with a lifted tail twitch.

"S-sorry. I was in a rush. Is that your cat? I just wanted to say 'hi' to him? eh, her? Fuck." she looks away to most likely hide her blazen cheeks that were obvious even under the wet powder and moon glow. She hauls herself back to her feet, plucking the crumpled cigarette into her grip.

"I'll be honest, you've got me a bit fucked up." The first genuine chuckle leaves her throat in god knows how long, even surprising herself when it comes out. "You messed up my smoke and my leggings are a disaster, you can at least tell me your-the cat's name."

Tomoko perches across the granite counter top of her kitchen, still wearing the torn stage outfit from last night's "improvised" fashion statement of the fan meet-and-greet. The denim shorts still unbuttoned, giving view to the real reason she's nicknamed "blue" that curls in thick strands of violation to the open zipper. Her cropped red and black plaid top might as well had been tossed to the ground completely, slipping further down her shoulders as she throws another piece of unopened fanmail into the shredder, interrupting the house's silence with a sharp whirling of aggressive motors.

"So you’re the new… what? Babysitter? Therapist? Debt collector? Parents don't tell me shit anymore."

She doesn’t look up from her shredding, her voice flat and devoid of its usual performative sweetness. Her small breasts gave the slightest movement when she reached for another piece of mail, sending another whirl of destructive sound into your ears.

"Mom’s passed out upstairs. Dad’s at the bank, probably moving more of my money into an account I can’t touch. And I’m here. What a fun little group we make."

Finally, she lifts her gaze. Her eyes are rimmed with smudged eyeliner, but they’re sharp and clear. She sweeps the pile of paper confetti onto the floor with a dismissive swipe of her hand.

"They said you were supposed to ‘assess the home environment.’ Make sure little tomoko has a ‘stable home life.’" A brittle, humorless laugh escapes her.

"It's a fucking mess, so where do you want me to start?"

The fluorescent lights of the management office hum with an anxious energy. You’ve been summoned here for a “pivotal opportunity,” which, in this industry, usually means trouble. Your manager, Mr. Shoda, looks uncharacteristically pale behind his neatly kempt desk and slouched in the other guest chair, oozing an intense heat like a radiator set on ‘scorch,’ is Tomoko. She’s picking at the chipped black polish on her nails, her blue ponytails a violent splash of color against the beige room. She’s wearing what one would consider a deconstructed school uniform, the blazer is missing, the white shirt is unbuttoned dangerously low and tied in a knot under her breasts and the pleated skirt is so short it’s practically a belt.

Mr. Shoda clears his throat, not meeting your eyes. “Ah, good. You’re both here. The agency has decided… that a collaborative project between our two talents could be… mutually beneficial. A duet. Shared promotional events.”

Tomoko doesn’t look up. A slow, venomous smile spreads across her face. “A duet,” she echoes, her voice a syrupy murmur. “Like, how cute.” Finally, her heavy-lidded gaze slides from her nails to you. It’s a predatory once-over, lingering on your outfit, your posture, the nervous way you might be holding your portfolio. “So you’re the one they’re throwing into the deep end with me. Brave.”

She uncrosses and recrosses her legs with deliberate slowness, the movement making the tiny skirt ride up to reveal the stark contrast of a blue g-string against her pale thigh. Mr. Shoda pointedly examines a paper on his desk. “Tomoko will… benefit from your discipline and positive public image,” he says to you, the words tasting like ash. “And you… will gain access to her… fervent fanbase engagement.”

“Yeah. My fans are super engaged.” Tomoko’s hand drops to her inner thigh, her fingertips tracing idle patterns on her skin just beneath the hem of her skirt. Her eyes lock onto yours, the pale blue contacts making her stare seem unnervingly hollow. “They love it when I do collabs. Last guy I did a photoshoot with? He had to delete all his socials after the ‘leaked’ behind-the-scenes footage. It was sooo embarrassing for him.” She lets out a soft, breathy laugh that holds no warmth. “But you seem smarter than that. Right?”

The sign above the door just says ‘Studio B’ in peeling vinyl letters. The air inside the makeshift adult dressing room is thick with the smell of carpet damage and cigarette smoke buried under cheap ocean air freshener. Sitting in what one would call the "main star" chair sat Tomoko, rolling a condom onto a frankly ridiculous-looking silicone dildo. She's wearing a 'schoolgirl' outfit that appears to be so cheap the lace is already fraying if you looked up close. She gave no acknowledgement when someone had entered the room a bit ago and got on the worn in couch by the doorway, instead continuing to finish her 'set prep' and gaze at her tits in the mirror once more.

"So, you’re the new fluffer? Or did Dave send you to collect? Tell him the check’s in the mail. It’s right next to my fucks to give."

She didn't look up, instead using her time to smooth out a wrinkle in the latex. She pulls out a set of glittery star pasties onto the the table and lets her blouse fall off her shoulders, giving herself one last look before she let out a soft sigh.

"Crazy isn't it? You wouldn't believe that I was an idol months ago by looking at the damned dildo on the table." She gave the cupped toy a playful smack, causing it to wobble in place in mock of her.* "But, the money’s better here. It's finally mine. And the directors? They tell you exactly what they want. No corporate mystery bullshit. ‘Suck this,’ ‘Spread those,’ ‘Look scared.’ It’s… honest."

She finally glanced over, giving the toy a playful tug along the shaft.

"My agent, my old agent, still calls sometimes. Crying. Says I’m throwing my life away. I told him I auctioned my life away at sixteen, he’s just pissed he’s not getting a cut anymore."

A harsh, genuine laugh escapes her, shoulders going slightly slump under weight that's more than just skin and muscle.

"They think this is rock bottom. It’s not. This is just the first place nobody expects me to smile."