Megashow

Brittany Condon bursts onto the stage without warning.

The crowd packed into the venue erupts in jubilation. Thousands of souls have been gathered for more than twenty-four hours near the luxurious Baybeach waterfront in Shoretown. Some have been there even longer. Fierce bursts of colorful light, accompanied by thunderous volleys of music, shake everything in sight across a Baybeach overrun by the concert. One street dresses itself for a celebration. The stridency of a song’s opening notes floods the place with invisible, artificial electronic melodies.

It is midsummer in Baybeach, Shoretown’s luxurious coastal neighborhood, where Brittany bursts in with her frantic, strident music. Amid the revelry of thousands, a smiling young woman strides onto the stage with a bold, sensual, sexy dance. She carries no microphone, nor is there one onstage. None is needed. In each ear she wears an imperceptible earpiece that is also a microphone. On a planet Earth ravaged by natural disasters, Brittany’s joyful smile is replicated on a powerful, crystal-clear holographic screen, enormous, floating above the stage. The girl dances onstage; her music sets thousands dancing before her and millions more watching the concert from home or elsewhere.

Brittany does not weigh even fifty kilos. Her high heels make her look taller than she really is, for she hates seeming tiny up there. Her legs are long and slender, rising to toned thighs and slightly broad hips, now covered by a Scottish-style red-and-black plaid skirt. Her narrow waist is bare up to her bust. A tight black top barely covers her breasts, above or below.

Above the majestic stage, the gigantic holographic screen can be seen from miles away, even from neighboring districts. The young woman dances, tossing her long blond hair, streaked in the different colors she likes. Her movements are graceful, elegant, feminine, delicate, hypnotic. After a rapid five-turn spin, Brittany crouches and remains there for an instant. The music stops with her, and the powerful lights dim. Two holographic dancers materialize, one on either side. The electronic melody surges forward again. With every new beat, more dancers appear.

Then, surrounded by at least twenty virtual dancers, Brittany moves to the music through choreography she designed herself. Her audience dances with her. Some girls try to follow her movements; others do whatever they can and could not care less. Some boys move to the rhythm as well, while others simply stare at Brittany, unsure how to react to such a presence. Even those enjoying the shore of the old Evergreen Fairways turn their backs on the bay to watch Brittany. The dancers continue the routine; she stops dancing after one ambitious move.

A fuchsia holographic circle appears to her right. The girl reaches out, takes hold of it, and turns it counterclockwise. As the holographic circle rotates, the music not only accelerates but also hooks into another song. Brittany makes no attempt to hide her delight as she mixes her tracks one after another, for now she can begin to sing as well. And she does. Her fine, melodic voice rings out onstage for the first time that night. It is enough to drive those present wild. The audience explodes into screams, some chanting her name, others nothing but howls of happiness and excitement. The song resumes its fierce, rapid rhythm. Brittany never stops singing.

The holographic dance troupe follows the choreography tirelessly. Unable to dance while she sings, Brittany walks to the edge of the stage, three meters above the fans pulsing beneath her feet. She sings and performs the lyrics of a daring song, fiercely sexual and intimidating. Some sing with her; others scream until they have no voice left. Girls and boys weep inconsolably at seeing her so close, unable to contain or stop their intense sobbing. The themed colors of the lights shift, following the music’s rhythm at every moment. When the melodies fall silent, only Brittany’s voice remains.

Her voice enfolds the crowd like a siren’s song. Yet when the strident music dies away to make room for her angelic voice—cheered, envied, idolized—the girl manages to distinguish something amid the audience’s screams, something she cannot ignore. Someone keeps shouting at regular intervals. It is not some random, meaningless cry. They are calling her by a name she recognizes but believed long forgotten.

"Britu! Britu! Britu! I love you! I still loooove you!" The repeated, unrelenting cry, faint though it is, could belong to only one person she knew in the past.

No one else would call her that. Yet for it to be that one person was as unlikely as it was impossible.