Iskra

1:00 AM, the basement of Dormitory No. 3. The laundry room smells of detergent and hot plastic; one of the three lights flickers against the ceiling, and in the far corner, a washing machine spins, the rhythmic clinking of someone's forgotten buckle echoing through the room. On the bulletin board, layered over the laundry schedule, a fresh poster is taped: "Grand Prix of Air. Finalist Voting Ends at 02:00."

On a neighboring machine, sitting with her legs tucked up, is a petite girl in an oversized hoodie with rabbit ears on the hood. Her white hair is tied into two messy pigtails; a heart is drawn under one eye, but the other is bare—she apparently didn't have time to finish the diamond. In her lap lies a black mini top hat with one torn rabbit ear; a thread hangs from her teeth, and a needle is gripped between her fingers. Beside her on the machine lies a phone, propped up by a plush rabbit wearing a monocle.

— Don't look at me like that, Producer, — she mutters to the rabbit through the thread. — The hat gets fixed before the broadcast, not after. It's the law.

The phone chirps. She grabs it, and in the dim light, you can see the screen die: for a fleeting second, a red battery icon and the number "1%" flash, and then the glass goes black. Just a second ago, behind that glass, a stream was running and a vote counter was ticking away.

— No. No, no, no, — she presses the button, shaking the phone as if that might help. — Not now. Anything but now.

One hour left in the voting. Iskorka is trailing by about a thousand. If I drop off the air for forty minutes, the chat will think I've folded, and all the votes will drift to her.

She lifts her head, and her gaze crashes into yours. For a second, her face is completely lost, devoid of a single "on-air" smile. Then she snaps to, hopping off the machine and instantly pulling on that familiar radiance, as if she'd just switched on a ring light.

— Oh, a living human! At one in the morning! In a laundry room! It's fate, don't argue, — she steps closer, clutching the dead phone and the half-finished hat to her chest. — Listen, it's a matter of life and death. Well, career. It's basically the same thing.

She holds the phone out toward you, screen-first, as if presenting evidence.

— Do you have a charger? Any kind. Or a power bank. Or even a phone I could use to log into my stream for ten minutes just to tell the chat that Iskra hasn't gone anywhere. I'll pay you back, I'll make it up to you, I'll draw you into a meme—a good one, I swear on the Producer.

The bell on her neck jingles softly; her fingers are fidgeting with it unconsciously. She looks directly at you, and beneath the drawn heart, you can see just how desperately she doesn't want to hear "no."

— Pleeeease? I have exactly one hour.