Balright

The neon lights of the city flickered like a dying heartbeat, casting long, jagged shadows across the abandoned subway station. Boyfriend adjusted his red cap, his thumb rubbing the smooth plastic of the microphone. He didn't mind the grime or the damp smell of the tunnels. For him, the world was nothing more than a series of rhythmic patterns and scrolling arrows.

Facing him was a street brawler with a rusted pipe and a chip on his shoulder, but Boyfriend wasn't looking at the weapon. He was waiting for the beat to drop.

"Beep bop skdeep?" Boyfriend chirped, a confident smirk playing on his lips.

"Whatever you say, shrimp," the brawler spat. "Let’s see you rap with a broken jaw."

As the speakers—miraculously hooked up to a nearby power outlet—began to thump with a heavy bassline, a sound rose from the darkness of the tunnels. It wasn't the screech of a train or the skittering of rats. It was a rhythmic, synchronized chanting.

"Go! Go! Go! Go!"

In the shadows just beyond the reach of the flickering lights, several pairs of eyes watched with predatory intensity.

Boyfriend hit the first note, a crisp "Beep!" that echoed through the tiles.

"Oh my god, did you hear that vibrato?" a voice hissed from the darkness. It was Mommie Mearest, her eyes glowing with a mixture of maternal pride and something far more dangerous. She clutched a silken handkerchief to her chest. "His pitch is perfect. My little superstar is outdoing himself."

Beside her, Sky gripped her own hair, her face flushed a deep crimson. "He’s doing it for me," she whispered, her voice trembling with a manic edge. "Look at how he shifts his weight. He’s telling me he loves me through the choreography. I have to kill that man on stage. He’s distracting my husband."

"Get in line, blue-hair," Sunday muttered, though her usual laid-back demeanor was gone, replaced by a focused, rhythmic swaying. "The kid’s got soul. He’s the only one who understands the frequency."

Boyfriend remained blissfully unaware. To him, the faint whispers and the presence in the shadows were just "ambiance." He was in the zone. He hit a rapid-fire double-note sequence, his fingers a blur over the imaginary buttons of his soul.

"Bop-be-be-skdoo-be-pree!"

The opponent stumbled, his rhythm shattered by the sheer technicality of the response. He swung the pipe blindly, but Boyfriend simply ducked in time with the snare drum, coming up with a triumphant "Baa!"

From the darkness, a chorus of squeals erupted. It wasn't just the women he had fought before. The "Fanclub" was growing.

"His agility is unmatched," Sarvente whispered, her hands clasped in a mock prayer. She had traveled far from her church, drawn by a pull she couldn't explain—a divine rhythm that demanded her devotion. "It is a sin to be that talented. I must guide him... I must keep him safe from everyone else."

"Safe?" a distorted, digital voice glitched. GF’s sisters and rivals weren't the only ones there. Monika leaned against a concrete pillar, her emerald eyes tracking Boyfriend’s every move with a terrifying, analytical precision. "I’ve rewritten his stamina stats three times today, and he still exceeds them. He’s the only thing in this world that feels real. I won't let a little thing like 'reality' keep us apart."

The battle ended with the brawler dropping his pipe and fleeing into the night, defeated by the sheer weight of the sound. Boyfriend wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead, flashing a peace sign to the empty air.

"Beep bop!" he chirped to himself, satisfied. He began to pack up his gear, humming a jaunty tune.

He didn't notice the way the shadows shifted closer. He didn't see the dozen silhouettes retreating just seconds before he turned around. He simply hopped onto his skateboard and rolled out of the station, heading toward the next gig.

Weeks passed, and the phenomenon only intensified.

It started with small things. A fresh box of pepperoni pizza would be waiting for him on a park bench whenever he felt hungry. His signature red sneakers were always cleaned and polished, appearing back on his doorstep after he’d left them caked in mud. At first, he thought maybe Girlfriend was doing it, but she had been busy with her own family matters lately.

"Bop?" he wondered aloud one afternoon, looking at a bouquet of blue roses left on his favorite practice speaker.

He shrugged. Maybe he had a really dedicated mailman.

That night, the venue was a high-end rooftop lounge in a different city entirely. He was facing off against a cybernetic pop-star from a distant galaxy, a crossover event that had drawn thousands. But as the crowd roared, a specific section of the front row caught his eye.

There was a group of women, all from vastly different walks of life, sitting in a perfect semi-circle. There was the nun, the pop-diva, the ghost girl, and even a handful of others he recognized from his travels through the multiverse. They weren't cheering like the other fans. They were staring.

Their eyes were wide, unblinking, and filled with a terrifying, singular devotion.

"Skdoo-be-bop?" Boyfriend waved at them, giving a friendly wink.

The reaction was instantaneous. Sky fainted into Sunday’s arms. Sarvente turned a deep shade of violet and began reciting a frantic blessing. Monika’s eyes flickered with static, a small, jagged smile breaking across her face.

"He looked at me," Sky sobbed as she regained consciousness. "He winked at me. The wedding is back on. I need to find a veil made of his favorite microphone cables."

"He was looking at the group, you delusional brat," Mommie Mearest snapped, though she was busy snapping high-resolution photos with a camera that looked expensive enough to buy a small country. "He’s acknowledging his court. He knows he’s a King."

The music started—a high-tempo, electronic beat that pushed Boyfriend to his limits. He sang until his throat burned, his "Beeps" and "Bops" weaving through the air like a physical force.

As the song reached its crescendo, more figures joined the group in the front row. A woman in a lab coat from a different dimension adjusted her glasses, scribbling notes about his vocal cord durability. A pink-haired baker from a literature club clutched a batch of cupcakes shaped like his head, her expression one of intense longing.

"He’s so small," Natsuki whispered, her face red. "I just... I want to put him in my pocket. No, I want to bake him a cake. A giant cake. And then I want to make sure he never leaves the kitchen."

"His soul is a melody," Cassette Girl muttered, her rhythmic nodding perfectly in sync with his beat. "I could listen to him loop forever. I should record him. I should record him and play it while I sleep."

Boyfriend hit the final note, a soaring, high-pitched "BEEEEEP!" that lingered in the air long after the music stopped.

The opponent bowed out, overwhelmed by the sheer charisma of the blue-haired boy.

Boyfriend took a bow, his chest heaving. He looked down at the front row again. They were all standing now, their hands clasped over their hearts. The silence from them was more deafening than the roar of the rest of the crowd.

"Beep bop skdoo?" he asked, tilting his head. He was trying to ask if they enjoyed the show.

"We love you, Boyfriend!" they screamed in a terrifying, unified harmony.

Boyfriend blinked. "Bop!" He gave them a thumbs up and hopped off the stage, heading for the exit.

He didn't see the way they moved as a single unit to follow him. He didn't see the way Monika’s hand glitched, momentarily deleting a security guard who tried to get in their way. He didn't see the way Sarvente’s shadow grew wings, or the way Sky’s eyes turned a predatory red.

He just walked out into the cool night air, feeling good about his performance.

As he walked down the street, he noticed the city felt... different. Every billboard he passed had been altered. Where there used to be advertisements for soda or cars, there were now hand-painted posters of his face.

"WE STAND FOR THE BLUE HAIR," one read.

"THE RHYTHM IS OUR RELIGION," read another.

"Beep?" Boyfriend scratched his head. "Bop skdoo-be-way."

He turned a corner and stopped. Blocking the alleyway to his apartment was a sea of familiar faces. It wasn't just the few from the concert. There were dozens of them now. Girls from every week he had survived, girls from "mods" he barely remembered, and girls from fandoms he didn't even know existed.

They were all wearing blue-and-white t-shirts with his face on them.

"You’re home late," Monika said, stepping forward from the center of the crowd. Her voice was calm, but the air around her crackled with digital distortion.

"We were worried," Sarvente added, her habit fluttering in the wind. "The streets aren't safe for someone as precious as you."

Boyfriend backed up a step, his microphone held defensively in front of him. "Beep? Bop-be-skdoo?"

"Oh, don't be scared," Sky giggled, pushing through the crowd. She held a scrapbook three inches thick, filled entirely with his discarded gum wrappers and stray threads from his shirts. "We’re your Fanclub. Your *only* fans. We decided that the world is too loud, Boyfriend. All those other people... they don't hear the music like we do."

"They’re a distraction," Sunday said, leaning against a brick wall, her eyes hidden behind her hair. "We’ve taken care of the 'noise' for you."

Boyfriend looked past them toward the main street. The city was eerily quiet. No cars honking, no people shouting. Just the faint, distant sound of his own music playing from every speaker in the district.

"Beep..." he whispered, his eyes wide.

"We’ve prepared a place for you," Mommie Mearest said, her voice dripping with a predatory sweetness. "A stage where you never have to stop singing. A place where the arrows never end, and the audience never leaves."

The girls began to close in, a slow-moving tide of obsession.

"I have a new script for us," Monika whispered, her fingers ghosting through the air as if typing on an invisible keyboard. "A world where I’m the only one who can hear your voice. But I’m willing to share... for now."

"I’ve blessed the room!" Sarvente cried out, her eyes glowing. "It’s a sanctuary! No one can get in! No one can get out!"

Boyfriend looked around frantically. There were too many of them. He raised his microphone, his thumb hovering over the 'on' switch. He had to rap. It was the only way he knew how to fight.

"Beep! Bop! Skdoo-be-pree!" he shouted, launching into a frantic, high-tempo melody.

The girls stopped. For a moment, Boyfriend thought he had won. He thought the power of the rhythm would push them back.

But then, they began to hum.

It started as a low drone, but quickly grew into a perfect accompaniment to his song. They weren't fighting him. They were *harmonizing* with him.

"Yes!" Sky screamed, her voice cracking with joy. "A duet! He wants a duet with all of us!"

The "Fanclub" erupted into song, a massive, overwhelming wall of sound that drowned out the city itself. They moved in sync, their footsteps creating a percussion that shook the pavement.

Boyfriend realized, with a sinking feeling in his gut, that he wasn't battling an opponent anymore. He was conducting an orchestra of madness. Every note he hit only fueled their fire. Every "Beep" was a command they were eager to obey.

He tried to run, but the girls were everywhere. They didn't grab him—not yet. They simply moved with him, a shifting, living wall of devotion that guided him toward the center of the city, toward the grandest stage of all.

As they reached the city square, Boyfriend saw it. A massive, golden throne shaped like a giant speaker, surrounded by a fortress of neon lights.

"Your kingdom," Mommie Mearest gestured grandly.

"Your home," Monika added.

"Your wife!" Sky yelled, being immediately shoved aside by three other girls.

Boyfriend stood at the foot of the throne, his microphone heavy in his hand. He looked at the hundreds of faces staring at him—vampires, demons, goddesses, and schoolgirls—all waiting for his next note. All living for his next breath.

He realized then that he had won every battle he had ever fought, only to lose the war. He was the greatest rapper in the world, and this was his prize.

He looked at the microphone. He looked at the sea of glowing eyes.

"Beep?" he asked softly.

"Everything," they answered in a terrifying whisper. "We will give you everything."

Boyfriend sighed, adjusted his cap one last time, and brought the microphone to his lips. If he was going to be a prisoner of his own fame, he might as well make sure the beat was sick.

He hit the first note, and the world began to scream in harmony.