The first performance drew only a handful of people.
By the second, the venue was half-full.
By the third, tickets sold themselves without the need for advertising.
“By the way, what’s our band’s name?”
During one of their rehearsals, DINA suddenly brought up the question.
The drummer nodded. “Yeah, every time we don’t know what to say, we just go, ‘Hi everyone, our band leader is Jazzy!’ Feels a bit lazy, doesn’t it?”
Jazzy finished tuning his guitar strings. “Little sis, you wouldn’t ask that unless you already had a suggestion in mind, right?”
“Hehe, you know me too well, big bro.” DINA pulled a homemade banner from her backpack. On it, written in bold, colorful strokes, was one word:
ASHY
Jazzy set his guitar down. “Pain? That’s it? So simple?”
“Exactly! ‘Pain Band.’ Because this band was born out of Jazzy’s pain,” DINA declared with a grin.
Jazzy let out a wry smile.
At that moment, DINA’s neural interface chimed.
“Hello? Today? Oh no, I forgot! I’ll head over right now.”
Ending the call, DINA looked at the group. “Sorry, I’ve got something urgent. I’ll see you all later.”
As DINA rushed off, Jazzy turned to the bassist. “Do you know where she keeps disappearing to?”
The bassist leaned in conspiratorially. “Hey, Jazzy, didn’t you know? DINA is a field promoter for TFA. Even we couldn’t get in there.”
Jazzy sprang to his feet. “Tanky Liberation Front? What the hell is she doing with those radicals?”
“Whoa, chill, man,” the bassist said with a nervous laugh. “They’re just idealists. All they do is gather and shout slogans. It’s not as dangerous as you think.”
Jazzy grabbed his keys. “Not dangerous? Do you think I don’t know their former guerrilla leader? They’re a bunch of maniacs!”
Without another word, Jazzy bolted out the door.
He caught up to DINA on his motorbike at the border between the city and the suburbs.
“Big bro? What are you doing here?” DINA asked, startled.
Jazzy spoke with urgency. “Listen to me—leave this place. Just this once, trust your big brother.”
DINA paused, surprised, before replying, “You’ve got it all wrong! They’re not really some hardcore resistance anymore. They’re more like a big recreational club—it’s actually a lot of fun! Come with me just once, and you’ll see.”
Jazzy took a deep breath, thinking it through. If he went with DINA, he might be able to watch over her and keep her safe.
“Fine. But promise me, from now on, if you’re going, I’m coming with you.”
DINA rolled her eyes. “Overprotective much?”
DINA led Jazzy to an abandoned factory in the suburbs.
She knocked on the large, rusted door. “It’s DINA,” she called out.
A muffled voice responded from inside. “Passphrase?”
“Black Peacock,” DINA answered confidently.
The door creaked open, revealing a bustling scene inside.
Jazzy stood frozen in shock. It was like stepping into a massive nightclub—pool tables, arcade machines, a fully stocked bar… everything you’d expect in a high-end recreational hub.
“I told you, big bro, you’re overthinking it. Come on, let me introduce you to ‘Sister KORA.’”
DINA pulled Jazzy through the lively crowd to the farthest end of the factory. The area was a stark contrast to the vibrant chaos outside—neatly partitioned into small, orderly rooms.
Stopping at one of the doors, DINA knocked. A mature, elegant woman sitting at a desk opened it, smiling at DINA.
“So, you’re here with your… uh…”
“My brother!” DINA exclaimed.
“Right! Brother. We’ve got some things to discuss. Can you give us some space?”
“No problem! I’m off to play pool!”
Like a whirlwind, DINA was gone.
The moment she disappeared, security personnel seemed to materialize from every direction, surrounding Jazzy.
KORA took off her glasses, her expression turning cold and menacing. “Why? Why do you have KIC military technology on you?”
Jazzy remained calm—he had seen plenty of situations like this. Raising his hands in a gesture of surrender, he said evenly, “I don’t know anything about military tech. But I did pick up an unknown chip recently, and it restored my hearing.”
KORA continued, her gaze sharp. “If you were a spy for KIC, you wouldn’t have handled this so carelessly. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. But in exchange, can you hand over the chip? It’s critical to our ‘revolution.’”
Jazzy frowned. “What’s so important about this chip?”
“Do you know why the government is turning Tanky into a military fortress?”
“Isn’t it obvious? Strategic considerations,” Jazzy replied.
KORA shook her head. “According to our intel, including that chip you’re holding, KIC’s developments aren’t just for defense. Their goal is to turn Tanky into a wasteland.”
A heavy silence filled the air.
“And what if I refuse to hand it over?” Jazzy raised an eyebrow.
KORA remained calm. “Of course, the chip is yours. But how we ‘persuade’ you afterward might not be up to you.”
Jazzy’s expression darkened as a realization struck him. His voice rose. “Are you threatening my sister?”
KORA shrugged. “Who knows?”
With that, the security guards dispersed. Jazzy glared at KORA and left her with one parting remark: “I’ll protect her.”
KORA said nothing.
Back at the front of the factory, Jazzy grabbed DINA, who was happily playing pool.
“You’re fired,” Jazzy said firmly. “From now on, you’re sticking with me.”
“Huh? What? Big bro? What did you do?”
Jazzy didn’t answer, pulling DINA out of the factory without further explanation.
“Why did you join a place like that?” he demanded once they were outside.
DINA’s expression turned melancholy. “I just… wanted a home.”
Jazzy took a step forward and wrapped her tightly in his arms.
“Now you have one,” he said.
DINA felt their shared warmth melt into an indescribable comfort. She whispered, “I’m sorry…”
A Few Days Later
The internet was ablaze with rumors, spreading like a meteor shower. Every accusation was aimed squarely at DINA.
“That girl is a spy sent by Rusty County.”
“That girl is a traitor to TFA.”
“She’s already been bought by the government and corporations.”
“She’s…”
…
“DINA must be purged!”
“DINA must be purged!”
“DINA must be purged!”
Jazzy had been unable to contact DINA for several days. Even the bassist and drummer didn’t know where she was. All they could do was watch as the rumors online spiraled out of control, becoming common knowledge.
One day, Jazzy’s neural interface received a set of coordinates.
He didn’t even stop to consider whether it was a trap. Mounting his motorbike, he sped off immediately.
The coordinates led him to an overpass. Beneath it, hundreds of people were gathered, shouting words like “freedom,” “liberation,” and “traitor,” their voices sharp and grating.
Jazzy pushed through the crowd to the front. What he saw made his heart stop.
At the center of the crowd was an open square. A crane’s mechanical arm was raised high, swaying in the wind. Dangling from it was a frail figure.
What happened after that, Jazzy could no longer remember.
