Street Performances Are a Little Embarrassing~ 2

I was in the middle of lunch when my smartwatch suddenly blared with an obnoxiously loud alert.

"…?"

What on earth is this now?

I was still cocking my head at the notification when every phone in the restaurant started shrieking — not just mine, but everyone's.

"Manager Dan, what is this about?"

"No idea. Some kind of prank? Did somebody hijack the Central Intelligence Agency or something?"

Manager Dan, who'd been eating lunch across from me, clicked her tongue and set down her spoon.

The spoon stayed standing upright on the table.

Just as the question why doesn't it fall over? began to form, a blinding light poured down from the sky, as if my eyes had been scorched out of my skull.

— BOOOOM!

The asteroid swarm struck the Earth, and the Earth burst apart.

Everything before my eyes crumbled into ash.

Manager Dan. Uncle Michelson. That sweet old grandfather. Succubus Queen Sitrah.

Farewell, everyone.

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I opened my eyes.

A bed.

Manager Dan had cleaned and organized my room just yesterday, and it showed — the bed carried the scent of sunshine, and the whole room was crisp, tidy, and in lovely condition.

Just in case, I looked up at the sky.

No asteroids.

I hurriedly pulled up my smartwatch, only to find that instead of an alert, the only message waiting was a piece of spam.

"………."

But the scene I'd seen in that dream had been deeply unpleasant.

No — unpleasant didn't cover it. It had left my mind reeling, dizzy, my stomach lurching.

What in the actual…

What the HELL kind of nightmare dream was that???!!

I usually made a point of restraint, because profanity and vulgar language were not beautiful things — but the dream had been such an utter piece of garbage that the curse slipped out before I knew it.

What was with the asteroid? No, honestly. I was speechless. Simply speechless…!

Even if a swarm of asteroids were really hurtling toward Earth, the world was overflowing with awakeners of every description, and between the government's countless abilities and mana-stone technology, something like an asteroid could be shot down without breaking a sweat…!

"Ah, ugh… how unpleasant. This is more unpleasant than watching a film series I loved suddenly kill off its protagonist and prop up some pompous, chest-heavy woman as the new lead…."

Ugh. This is not beautiful.

My life, ending without warning under a falling rock? I would never allow it — but that doesn't make it any less repulsive, any less ugly.

I'd spent a good while clutching my head over it before glancing sideways, and there was my Ego Violin, bobbing in midair.

"Ihihihihi!"

"Kyahaha!"

"Ahahahah!"

The floating thing seemed to be moving with an oddly delighted energy, like a child who'd just played a prank, giddily rejoicing that every last thing had gone exactly according to plan.

"She's awake! She's awake! She's awake!"

"Ahhh, and we became one with the meteor~"

"Ahem."

"An asteroid-impact ending is a masterpiece!"

"A masterpiece so good it woke you right out of a dream!"

"…."

Don't tell me. Was this ridiculous nightmare your doing, you little monsters?

Cooling my head for a moment, I had to admit it wasn't impossible. This Ego Violin was, after all, the congealed souls of 187 boys and girls — and children, by nature, were imagination factories, running daydream circuits where fantasy and dreams, misfortune and happiness spun and swapped without pause.

And yet, out of all those countless miserable daydreams and happy little fantasies, they had chosen to end my life — abruptly, absurdly, horribly — with a single asteroid impact.

How utterly unforgivable.

"…Why would you do that?"

"Because it was fun!"

"Because we were bored!"

"Adélie penguin egg cracking!"

"We wanna perform!"

"We wanna play!"

"We wanna sing!"

"…Haa, you already did that yesterday."

Hadn't they performed just yesterday, and in the heart of one of the busiest commercial districts in the city, Konkuk University Station at that?

To say it once more: I do have a bit of an attention-seeker's streak. I do enjoy demanding people's interest and affection.

But my roots are those of a so-called shut-in, a recluse. Crowds of people, and frequent trips outside? I hate them.

And they wanted me out in that packed commercial district two days in a row — not even a week apart, two consecutive days?

Impossible.

"No! No! No! No!"

"Play!"

"■■■■■■■■!"

"Cursed sound waves are useless on me, you know. They don't work on me in the slightest."

"We hate you!"

"We'll make you dream about asteroids!"

"We'll make a meteor hit you!"

"……."

Should I just… smash you?

Ah. No. No, I mustn't.

They're children, after all.

I suppose I can't.

A small killing intent did bloom toward that whining, tantrum-throwing violin — but I smoothed it back down, I really did. However furious a person may become, one must never harbor hatred and rage toward a child.

Every parent, they say, feels anger and loathing toward the child who whines without cease, who wails day and night without ever knowing how fast the parent is burning away — and yet, they endure it, because the child is dear to them.

I've never given birth to a child, of course. But having become the owner of this Ego Violin, I am, in a sense, something like a parent.

So I decided to simply ignore the children's whining and enjoy my morning first.

This morning: toast and eggs.

And Spam.

Spam really ought to be eaten with rice — but sadly, Manager Dan hadn't cooked any this time either, perhaps out of worry that I might go on strike from rice again.

So today I would make a lovely breakfast from what we had: strawberry jam, sandwich bread, eggs, and Spam.

It's simple. You put the bread in the toaster.

While the bread toasts, you crack the eggs into a pan and give them a rough stir, and there — scrambled eggs. Oh, I forgot the salt. No matter. I can add it now, can't I?

Then the Spam goes into the same pan, right alongside the eggs.

Ouch! Oil splattered! It didn't hurt, exactly, but it was rather rude of it!

Ah, and the bread is done. Golden brown and crisp, spread with strawberry jam, with the scrambled eggs beside it, and the fried Spam laid alongside them.

"Fufufu. Perfect."

Had I recognized cooking as "a thing that looks beautiful," I might have been skilled at it — but unfortunately, I do not yet perceive cooking, or the act of cooking, as beautiful. That is a matter between my perception and my unconscious, and therefore beyond remedy.

After all, as a beautiful Empress, I am at my most beautiful when someone waits upon me, and I eat what another hand has prepared.

Where on earth would you find a noble daughter, a king, or an emperor cooking with their own hands?

Everyone eats what is served to them. So I expect it will take a very long time indeed before I come to find my own cooking beautiful.

"Play for us! Play for us! Play for us! Play for us! Play for us! Play for us! Play for us! Play for us! Play for us! Play for us! Play for us! Play for us!"

"EmperorPenguinGentooPenguinAdéliePenguinKingPenguinChinstrapPenguinLittleBluePenguinWhiteFlipperedPenguinHumboldtPenguinGalápagosPenguin!"

"We wanna plaaay!"

"Hmph! Or else this time we'll make you dream of Auntie Dan turning to stone!"

"Now that's crossing the line!"

"Oh? Sorry."

"……Haa."

Even in the middle of a meal, the children's whining ringing through my skull coaxed a sigh out of me before I noticed.

Even when I performed for them in the commercial district, they were satisfied only for that single day — and then, like some starving monster, they demanded more. A hungry monster. A famished monster. Children who demanded and demanded, endlessly, no matter how much they were fed.

I'd be lying if I said the killing intent never flickered, if only for an instant. But then — me, unable to endure something so trivial, flailing my power about like some beast?

Not beautiful.

They are adorable, lovable, and hateful little children… but what can I do?

It falls to the beautiful me, overflowing with responsibility and patience, to endure.

Ah, me — she who shoulders and nurtures these 187 children, this burden like a mountain of luggage, with grace and forbearance. Completely. Perfectly. Beautiful. Yes.

Enduring, holding my dignity as a human being, maintaining a mercy and compassion worthy of a saintess — no, better than a saintess — how saintly. How radiant. How beautiful.

Fufufu.

"We wanna sing!"

"We wanna perform!"

"Today we wanna play the Carrot Song!"

"…Fine."

And so, in the end, I declared surrender to the children.

To my Ego Violin.

The trouble is, I don't want to go out. But the children want to play for an audience of actual people.

Which means…

I looked at the computer, gathering dust, its screen facing away from the world. Manager Dan had installed it as part of some welfare initiative, but I never really use computers — and since I have a smartwatch, any casual browsing I do tends to happen on that.

Hmm. Looking closely, it even has a webcam. A recorder, speakers, a microphone too.

It was a full set Manager Dan had ordered as a bundle, so it seems to have everything one could want.

"That should do it, shouldn't it?"

Come to think of it, among the various activities Manager Dan had proposed to me, broadcaster had been one of them.

Would internet streaming count, I wondered?

"Not that I intend to put any real effort into it."

Late at night.

In a dark corner of a dark room, a man was drifting through the internet by the glow of a single screen. With nothing better to do, he clicked from site to site, trawling gossip-filled wikis to while away his boredom.

His fingers drifted slowly across the mouse, and screens and strings of text slid past in an endless stream.

"Yaaawn. I'm beat. Maybe I should just sleep. I've got a boss raid to run tomorrow…."

A "boss raid," here, didn't mean a video game — it meant an actual dungeon assault in the real world.

He was a hunter, in fact. And a hopeless, lifelong single.

As an awakener his looks weren't bad at all, but between catastrophically poor communication skills and zero relationship experience, there wasn't the faintest sign of romance on his horizon.

He wasn't the sociable, go-out-and-have-fun type, either. On his days off, his idea of life's little pleasures was ordering delivery food, killing time on ViewTube, and dumping money into gacha games from the comfort of home.

"Nothing good streaming at this hour, huh. Maybe I'll just take a nap…"

And so, scrolling down without the least expectation as he did every night, he happened upon a certain screen.

"What's this?"

On the screen stood a woman.

Dressed in a black suit — yet even the suit couldn't hide what an extraordinary figure she had.

Despite the veil, a razor-sharp facial contour, deep violet eyes, black hair that looked uncannily vivid against the darkness. The woman stood motionless at the center of the frame, violin in hand.

Drawn as if under a spell, the man fixed on the screen and clicked into her stream. Only belatedly did he realize she was broadcasting live.

The moment she confirmed the screen, she raised her violin — without so much as a greeting.

And the performance began.

The melody that flowed out carried a familiar sound, somehow — and yet it was a fiendishly difficult set of variations, played on a single violin.

A variation on Canon.

As the first note swelled outward, the melody flooded the man's heart.

The computer was, without question, fitted with a mental protection ward — and still the violin's voice pulled at his very soul, wiping away every thought, every feeling.

The music blooming from her fingertips was strangely, impossibly seductive. Each individual note seemed to knock against his spirit and his mind, and before he knew it, he realized he had sunk into that sea of melody.

And realizing it changed nothing. There was no climbing out.

This was no mere performance.

Performance? Of course it was magnificent. Skilled enough to make conservatory majors look like children — more than that. But the sound coming through the speakers carried something like magic, the kind that seizes a person's heart in its fist.

The mental protection ward was perfectly intact, and the sound carried no true mana — and yet the man found himself willingly surrendering body and soul to that melody. Without a shred of doubt. As naturally as breathing.

"Ah…."

And then the performance ended.

The man rushed to type his chat.

That was an incredible performance! Short, but amazing! I want to hear more! What's your name, streamer?!

Fingers flying across the keyboard, he was already reaching to send a donation to this magnificent music.

But…

Huh? Then at least a thank-you in chat…

But before the man could type a single word, the screen cut to black.

"Ah……."

And the man, overcome with regret, could do nothing but lament.