Episode 1 - The Beam

well-deserved applause had been shocked into silence, and a handful of loudmouths were getting all the attention. And this was going out on the Beam feed, too, so everyone was watching her moment crumble thanks to a handful of assholes. Soon, boos were the only sounds in the seats, oddly harmonizing with the thunking of objects landing onstage.
    A well-dressed man, his eyes offended on Natasha’s behalf, jumped onto one of the jeering miscreants. The booing man fought back, throwing them both over a chair. Those around them stepped away. One of the malcontents closer to the stage turned to stare at Natasha as if she’d caused the fight and threw something at her. Natasha flinched away. Whatever the man had thrown struck and shattered a light, and with the explosion of glass and sparks, the paralysis remaining in the seats started to crumble. A few of the rabble in back began changing sides, apparently swayed by well-reasoned arguments from the troublemakers — sage truisms such as Get the diamonds out of your ass! And Fuck you!
    “Natasha!” hissed a voice. She turned to see Jane, her tour manager, beckoning her.
    Natasha looked out at the brawl unfolding in the theater — the same theater that, moments earlier, had harbored a sea of adoring fans. What had gone wrong? She looked back at Jane. In the second it took to look away, Jane had easily grown twice as impatient. She had doubled the size of her gestures, and the number of arms used to make them. Her eyes looked angry, baffled by Natasha’s stupidity.
    “Natasha!” Jane repeated. “Get the hell over here, will you?”
    “They threw a tomato,” was all Natasha could say.
    Jane rushed forward and grabbed her star by the wrist, then began to pull on Natasha’s arm nearly hard enough to yank the limb from its socket. Natasha’s high heels threatened to spill her, but she’d had years and years of practice at remaining stylish and beautiful even under duress, and managed to keep her footing. She shambled along behind Jane like a dog on a leash. They stepped through a black curtain as something broke on stage. It sounded like glass or porcelain.
    “Your hover,” said Jane. “Go with James. Now . Get the fuck out of here.”
    “But I’m supposed to sign autographs,” Natasha said, dazed.
    Jane jabbed at the curtain with a pointed finger. The gesture made the black drape swing, and Natasha saw through it that security and police had come to the front of the stage. The crowd was trying to climb up. Were they trying to escape the melee, or had they all turned on her?
    “You want to sign for this crew?” said Jane. “You’ll need a riot mask. They’re falling apart out there!”
    “Why?”
    James’s hand was already replacing Jane’s on her wrist, and a moment later, the bodyguard’s strong arm was around her shoulder as well. Jane was supposed to manage tour dates, James was supposed to protect her. Only Jane would yank her along. James, on the other hand, knew better ways to move her.
    “Come on, Ms. Ryan,” he said. James shaved his head, but wore a brown porkpie hat like a hipster. It was a strange look to counterpoint his broad, muscular body.
    “I need Kiki.”
    “I have your dog, Ms. Ryan. Come with me. It’s not safe here.”
    “But they love me. They’re supposed to love me,” she said. Beyond the curtain, there was a yell, the scampering of feet, and the thump of a police slumbergun, followed by the sound of a body hitting the polished wood floor.
    “Come with me. Come on. Let’s get you home.”
    Natasha allowed herself to be led toward her hovercar. She was so catatonic that James had to buckle her in before taking his spot up front behind the steering fork. There was a small pink bag beside her on the seat. As the hover climbed, she reached inside it, pulled out the small white dog, and set him on her lap. She proceeded to tell Kiki that it was all fine, that Shift always caused a little unrest, and that other than the actions of a few rabblerousers, the performance had gone quite well. They loved her. They really did.
    As James steered the craft into the thin traffic above District Zero and banked it toward Natasha’s penthouse, the star looked down and saw a dozen or more police cars arrive at the foot of the Aphora, their presence incongruous amongst the limousines and high-end hovers. She watched police swarm from their vehicles like ants rushing the theater, face-shields donned and slumbers held across their