by Mars Dorian
“I doubt that.”
She put the sack on the ground, grabbed its corners and emptied the content. Hundreds of rainbow-colored envelopes tumbled out. Bam raised his eyebrows.
“What’s this about?”
“Letters,” Laci said.
“Letters?”
“Yeah, you know, they’re like paper-based email.”
She dug into the mountain of letters and threw them around like confetti.
“Fan mail, Bam, fan mail just for youuu.”
She threw more and more letters around, Bam grabbed one from midair and turned it around. Saw a beautiful comic drawing of a bandaid-wearing guy below the stamp. The caption read,
“To Bam, the grrrreatest vlogger of dem all.”
Laci flashed a smile so sugary he almost got diabetes.
“Well, you gotta lot of reading to do. I’ll leave you alone with all the paper goodness. Sorry for dropping in like that, but I thought a bit of fan-swooning was in need after that hardcore mission.”
“Thanks, I guess.”
She sent him another wink and danced out of the room. The door closed, and Bam was back alone.
Well, him, and five hundred twenty-seven fan mails.
101
O tiredness, where art thou?
Obviously gone from Bam’s body. He grabbed a stash of mail from the deadwood letter pool and spread them around his bed. He started with the most colorful envelope from the collection, the one with the sick Manga-styled version of himself. The cartoon figure stared at him and begged to be opened up. So Bam did, and he found this from a fan called Lizzie.
Dear Bam,
Me and my brother watch the Blogbuster since forever. What can I say, it’s intense, but not as intense as you are. I never wrote a fan letter in my life, heck, I never wrote a LETTER in my life, but I can’t get you out of my head, so I thought I needed to tell you that.
Listen.
I gotz the feels when you saved Whizzard (he’s such a creepo) from that robot-looking freak. Seriously, my heartbeat hammered when that mongo attacked you guys AGAIN in that store. I screamed at my screen, lol, stuff like ‘Bam, punch that sucker. FINISH HIM OFF.’
Even my little brother got upset, and he’s normally calm like a coma patient. But in the end, you survived.
Phew, sooo glad.
Bam, I think you’re someone special, and I sometimes think you’re selling yourself low. I’ve scanned through your official Blogbuster profile and saw that you disliked the fact you’re the vlogger with the least popularity.
View counts are not everything !
So yeah, your competition has millions of subscribers, so what? Look what kind of A-holes they are, especially that Violet Gear (she thinks she’s soooo special or what)
You are giving your best, being your best. Views can never replace your BAWSOMENESS.
Please, keep rocking your hero, and I keep following you.
P.S. I’ve just subscribed to your crash channel. Gonna watch ‘em all and luv ‘em all as well.
P.S. I’ve drawn you this little Anime version of yourself. I know it doesn’t look like a Picasso, but it took me over 21 HOURS to create.
P.S.S. I’ve also bought a VORB. I hope you will sign it some day.
You shine up my day, every day.
a true fan, XOXO
Lizzy-Lee Tran
——
Bam’s heart rate shot up. He did receive fan mail in the past, but none of which,
A) was created with so much care
B) has so many Manga drawings
C) was that emotionally charged and life-changing
Now he gotz the feels, too.
Bam looked up from the deadwood letter. All this branding, all this self-improvement on being a better media personality, worked. He wasn’t the fool who crashed into objects for views and profits anymore, he was a serious vlogger with millions upon millions of fans who admired his character, his style, his actions. Bamilicious.
The world was watching him.
Loving him.
Needing him, and his videos.
Bam.
With his new-found zeal, he grabbed another stash of envelopes and tore through them. To hell with tiredness.
He wanted to read them all. Level up his vlogger confidence. The more he read, the more ‘fan feels’ he experienced, and the faster he realized,
damn,
Bam could become the greatest vlogger of them all.
102
Violet.
Watched the Blogbuster recording of the day.
Watched that armorfreak going crazy at team Gold Crush.
Beat, kick, baton bash, kick, wince and repeat.
It was hard to watch, and yeah, she won the mission. But boy, at which price? Screaming at peeps was one thing, going to war with them, another.
When she said to her fanbase,
make the rival team stop,
she meant,
make them stop.
Not,
beat them into the bloody abyss and throw smoke grenades after them.
But here he was, mister armorfreak, beating the boys like it was National Clobber Day.
Still, he did it for her, because he loved her, her style, her fashion, her brand. Could she take responsibility for her fans going nutso?
It was their choice, she didn’t force anyone.
Free will.
Or not?
Oh, conflicted feelings.
Violet decided to not worry about it anymore, she focused on the relaxation period instead. She had two days left before the last mission, and she needed a change from the BBB.
So she packed some of her equipment, hit the road.
Took the shuttle back to her neohipster home.
Because, emotional recharge.
At home, she was free of struggle, or so she thought.
— ACT III —
Viral Violence
103
Home suite home.
Her studio space said ‘salute’, well, the door with the artificial female did. Mrs. Marbles, Violet’s best feline friend forever, greeted her by strolling past her legs, running her tail up Violet’s leg. The cat tiptoed on her paws, making her original Gear fashion sway with every step.
“Salut, mon chéri,” Violet said.
She couldn’t help but crack a smile. She locked her door, knelt down and spread her arms. Mrs. Marbles jumped into them and licked Violet’s cheeks. Wet and scratchy cat tongue on makeup, what a combo. But Violet welcomed every feline lick.
“Yeah, I missed you too, madame.”
Best friend ever. As a ‘thank you’ gesture, Violet carried her furball to the couch and took down some cat snacks from the kitchen shelf. The cat meowed, she looked satisfied.
X took good care of her.
No doubt about that.
Violet gave her fresh cat-optimized milk and stroked her fur. Mrs. Marbles did look a bit more chubby than last time, X probably went too crazy with the food ratio. Anyways, she seemed fine and well alive, unlike Violet herself.
Because, Blogbuster.
Violet wanted to close her eyes, but the beeps went wild on her eScroll. Her community was calling. The first gut instinct was to check on them, read all the thousands of comments piling up. But as Violet hovered with the finger over the digital keyboard, she waited.
Did she want to expose herself to the comment onslaught?
After all, she came home to rejuvenate.
Relax.
Offline the mind.
So Violet rested her head on the couch pillow, loosened her crossed arms and gazed at the ceiling, her favorite reflective position. She even considered going sabbatical. Cut off the connection, at least till the next day. Thought about visiting a place where no one could reach her digitally in a radius of at least five kilometers. Maybe some stereotype beach with nothing but palm trees and smurf-blue water. She could rest on the shore, letting each grain of sand massage her back. Hold a piña colada in one h
and and iced chocolate banana in the other. What a welcoming change. What a needed change. But she couldn’t, not yet. She was still part of the Blogbuster, still chained to the Vorb promotion deal.
A vlogger’s life.
She put Mrs. Marbles back on the floor and shifted around the couch. Kicked off a cushion till she commanded the area all for herself. As she closed her eyes and reviewed the past days and weeks. Snippets of memory flashed before her eyes.
What a wild time, what a sick time.
It felt surreal just thinking about them.
With eyes closed, she told herself, go to bed, take a rest, you deserve it. What she did instead was turn around, and around, and around, till she found a comfortable spot to fall asleep on. What she did instead was sit up straight and check her online profile. Because she knew, you can take Violet out of the Internet, but you can’t take the Internet out of Violet.
She regretted the decision the second she skimmed over her news feed. One thousand comments? It was a bad guess to begin with. Over 5,674 messages ‘graced’ her online profile, five new ones appeared every minute. Whether she liked it or not, her name was trending now. And although common sense told her not to, she did check the comment flood.
“Violet u fine? You haven’t spoken to us since two hours ago. Please send us a sign of life #worried.”
“You did the right the choice, I approve of it.”
“You sold your soul the second you entered the Blogbuster. You’re a damn view whore.”
“I did EVERYTHING to support you in the fan warfare round, and now you blame your fans? Screw you, bitch. I’m going to disluv your fanpage and tell everyone of my friends to do the same. I’m sorry for every second I wasted interacting with you. You want your fans to make sacrifices for you, but you wouldn’t do the same for us? It doesn’t work this way, Violet, it’s a two-way street. You’ve lost all my respect.”
Another fantroll said,
“Hey Violet, I thought about rebranding your online presence. I’d call it - coward Violet - home of the hypocritical wannabe fashion vlogger and all-time fluke. What do you think?”
“Disluved your fanpage asap.”
Fail
Fail
Fail
A hundred hate comments later, Violet stopped reading. Granted, she discovered positive remarks in-between, but the saying was true. Negativity outweighed positivity by tons. And the more comments Violet read, the worse they got. When the trolling reached a new level of atrocity, Violet cut the connection. It was just too much to handle. She closed her windows, darkened her bedroom and crawled under the sheets.
She needed a cut from reality, too.
104
Bash, bash, across the bedroom.
Violet woke up. A battering noise hammered through her walls. She swallowed, tasting the salty sweat on her tongue. Her heartbeat went bazooka.
She stood up, listened.
Bash, bash.
The sound effects were real. And they were coming from her studio. Violet dragged herself up and wiped her sleepy eyes. She tiptoed through her bedroom, right into the living room. Chocolate blackness surrounded her vision, but only the sound mattered. Bash, bash, it went again. But this time, Violet figured it out. The battering came from her studio door. Violet looked at her eScroll, the digital font shone through the darkness. It was 2.34 am. Who could be knocking at this insane hour? A disgruntled neighbor? The only way to find out was to ask, even though every hair on Violet’s skin rebelled against that thought.
The air tasted electric.
Pressure.
She moved towards her door.
“Hello?”
The answer came in the form of another hit. The impact joggled the door, one more hit, and it was either going to bent or crack.
“Hello?”
The rush of adrenaline shot up her veins. She activated the door display which revealed a glimpse of the person on the other side. Violet swallowed. It was an armored figure wearing a twisted cat mask.
Violet jumped back. Every cell vibrated.
“Who the hell are you?”
The battering stopped. A second of silence followed, enough tension to charge a power plant. Then, a voice. And what a voice it was.
“I followed your career for years, Violet.”
Pause.
“I cringed when you experienced challenges, I laughed when you made many techwear sales or attracted another subscriber highscore. Heck, I even cried when that model set your jacket on fire and threatened to sue you. I was there the whole time, Violet, watching you, suffering with you, feeling you.”
Pause. Violet’s mind worked overtime. The voice was distorted, sounded like a robot. A metallic noise strangled through a subwoofer.
“What do you want from me?”
Pause on the other side.
“I loved every comment, supported you all the way during the Blogbuster.”
Pause.
“I helped you win the second round. Those idiots on team Gold Crush? Whizzard, Elli and that douche Bam? I kept them from reaching their mission goal. I even got shot, but I didn’t mind, because I did it for you, only for you, Violet.”
Her mind twisted around. She saw the recording from the second mission. Remembered the guy with the cat mask, and the armor modeled after one of her outfits, and the many ‘I luv Violet’ stickers on them. The guy who attacked Whizzard, beat him up bloody good, the one who went melee with Bam. The one who threw the smoke grenade in the convenience store and got shot by the kid’s scattergun.
“I put my life on the line, and you ridiculed me in front of the Vorb. You said I was a mental freak in front of millions of viewers. Really? Me? After everything I’ve done for you?”
Violet closed her eyes, thought about her every word.
“I want to thank you for your commitment, even though I don’t appreciate what you did. But please, hammering on my door freaks me out. I understand you’re angry, but we can sort this out. We can meet up and talk about this.”
She paused.
“If you really cared about me, you would understand. And leave. Please.”
For a second, nothing happened, and silence prevailed again.
“You lost all my respect,” the voice said.
“Please.”
“Talking time is over. Now and forever.”
Violet’s heart froze. What did that mean? The answer came too soon.
Sparks flickered on the door. They sprayed from a glowing line eating through the material, bottom to top. Fizzz, she knew what was happening, but she couldn’t believe it. The person laser-cut through her door.
“Stop it, please. I haven’t done anything to you, please.”
No answer, just more sparks. The laser reached the top, burned to the right, and back down again. A square shape of welding. Violet ran to her kitchen and looked for anything that could pass as a weapon. A boxed set of kitchen knives wouldn’t do, she needed more ooomph. She checked her shelf, her boxes, her everything. She knew this studio like the back of her brand, but under pressure, logic took a dive and made way for chaos in the brain. She fumbled around her tools, dropped half of them because her hands quivered. Take a deep breath, she told herself, but the shiver blitzed through her body, made her breath go burn in short bursts. Panic, here it came with endless fire inside.
Violet grabbed a semi-sharp wire stripper from her toolbox when she saw the laser-cut door falling flat on the ground. The cat-masqueraded armorfreak strolled in and turned his head towards her. A Vorb flew above the head, recording this moment.
The freak’s sound jammer hissed, before it let his voice come through again.
“Violet, how lovely you look.”
105
Violet stood frozen on the spot. It was bad news when a guy in masquerade and armor broke into your studio at night. It was worse when he acted laissez-faire about it, as if he was ordering a crapucchino with extra cream.
Violet stretched her back, put on her best alpha po
se, something she learned from taking catwalk lessons.
“This is my last warning — leave my studio. Or else…”
She clutched the wire stripper with her right hand, held it high like the holy sword, while trying to jam as much authority into her voice as possible. Truth was, her entire body trembled. Truth was, the guy knew it, he could smell it, somehow sickos always did.
“Look at you, acting all tough and rough, I wished you’d pull that pose during the fan warfare, back when I still rooted for you.”
Violet squinted her eyes, tried not to freak out by the guy’s voice jammer that made every word sound like evil robot speak. She pushed one step forward even though her body told her not to. Pointed the wire stripper at the guy’s direction and said,
“Please go.”
“I can’t, not anymore.”
So much for freak negotiation. The intruder charged after her. Violet jumped over the counter, away from the narrow kitchen space. The logical brain shut off, she moved on basic instinct now. She sprinted back to her living room, dropped to the floor and rolled sideways. Caught a glimpse of the freak. He was fast, but he was no pro. Fueled by fury and nothing else. When he moved close to her, she attacked him with the wire stripper and hit his shoulder. Too bad the guy wore armor — the wire stripper scratched the surface of his plated shoulder, right where a Violet sticker was glued to. The attacker laughed.
“That was my favorite pic of you.”
Whatever, freak. Violet went in for another swing, this time for the guy’s masked face. Its protection looked thinner than his body armor. But he acted fast. Grabbed her arm in mid-swing and clutched her wrist with his big, gloved hand. It sent needles of pain through her arm.
“So much passion, Violet, where was it during the second mission?”
Shut up, you sicko, Violet thought. She tried to free herself from his grab, but the guy’s anger rushed into his hand, making it clutch extra tight. The pain must have been intense, but the adrenaline drowned it for Violet.
“Let go of me,” she said.
Of course he didn’t. Instead, he pushed her against the ground, squeezed her wrist so hard she lost the wire stripper. It dropped on the cold studio ground with a plonk. Bad. Thirty seconds into the fight, and she already lost her best weapon.