1

You don't know me.

"Alert, alert," my human servant announced. "You now have 199,094 new followers, Zayn, bringing you to five hundred trillion followers. Have a wonderful day of world-renowned fame." My human closed their eyes, curled up into a ball on the floor and went back to sleep.

Okay, so you probably do know me. My name is Zayn, and I'm a pretty popular dude in the Wattpad Republic. I got really, really famous after I wrote a song called "Butterflies Don't Taste Like Butter (They Taste Like Flies)," and then got even more famous when I put out "When It Snows It Blows." Both of those songs later ended up on my debut album, "Simply Zayn." Man, that was a great record. Won a lot of awards, too—like Best Debut Album, even before it was finished or even released; to be fair, my maker is a high-ranking employee at Wattpad, so you might say there was a bit of rigging going on. But who's complaining?

What you don't know about me is that I'm a robot. And I haven't gotten my nuts cranked in, oh... well, never. That's right. I'm a virgin robot. Go ahead. Laugh.

Feel better now?

Anyway, one would think a super-popular guy like me—who, by the way, is actually pretty hot, if I'm allowed to say that about myself—wouldn't have a problem getting the chrome sucked off his trailer hitch, but you'd be surprised. Every time I think I've found the girl to make me a man, she ends up being just another gold digger.

Case in point: The last girl I hoped would be the one to jolt my bolt ended up using me to make her gay brother jealous. Do you have any idea how many dinners and expensive gifts I bought her? I actually went broke for a day or so, until I collected my next four-billion-dollar royalty cheque.

Sitting in my chair, making sure my battery was fully charged, I let out a sigh as I stared out the window. WattCity was swarming with people that morning. Maybe one of those girls out there... Maybe they would be the one.

2

I got out of the elevator and bumped into Troye Boningman, my manager. He's a loud-talking human and the only thing more flamboyant than his sexuality is his sense of fashion. His preferred outfit is no shirt—so he can flaunt his matching nipple and bellybutton piercings, always connected by a faux-gold chain—and see-through black yoga pants, so he can flop around his larger-than-natural organ. His dyed-silver hair is permanently in curlers, because he thinks it makes him look different. He wears a silver bracelet around his wrist, which he swears gives him special powers, and also those giant glasses that weren't cool in the '80s but for some reason are cool now.

"Zoyn, baby! Fancy seeing you here, mate!"

For some reason, he thinks my name is Zoyn. "It's Zayn. And, hi, Troye."

"Zoyn, babe, listen! I was running the numbers, and you're gonna need to write another hit single sometime within the next three minutes!"

"Zayn. And that's impossible, Troye, even for me."

Troye threw back his head and laughed. "You're off your rocker, Zoyn! That's what I love about you, babe! Listen, I'll get the Losers into the studio and you jog over there, come up with something genius, let them record the instrumentation and away you go!"

"I can't do it, Troye. Not even with the Losers." The Losers was the name of my backing band. At concerts, they played offstage, where no one could see them.

"Need those good-for-nothing, talentless punks replaced, do ya, Zoyn? Haha! I'll get right on it, babe! You're a star, Zoyn! Oh and, babe, how's this for a song title? 'Zany Like A Zoyn'? Brilliant, huh, mate?"

"'Zany Like A Zayn' might be better."

"Name change, huh, Zoyn? Maybe in a few years or so, you bloody madman, when you're not topping the charts! Or should I say, 'chopping the tarts,' eh?" Troye winked and elbowed me in the chest. "Love you, Zoyn, babe!" He checked his watchless wrist and said, "Oi, Zoyn, baby, the hit single came through just in time! Brilliant stuff as always, mate!" Troye strutted off, winking and firing finger-pistols at passing men.

I gave my head a shake and left the hotel.

3

Out in the street, I looked both ways before crossing. Everywhere I looked, advertisements about my apparently new hit single, "Zany Like A Zoyn," appeared on the walls, alongside my beautiful, digitally designed and 3D-printed face. I told my circuits to randomly rearrange my facial features, and when that was done I continued walking.

Now nobody would recognize me.

Now no girls would use me for my fame, fortune or face.

Unfortunately, now that I looked like someone who wasn't a celebrity, the WattCops stopped me.

"How's it goin', bud?" a fat one named Officer MacPudge asked me. He was smacking the barrel of his shotgun into his palm.

I muttered "Good..." and tried to get past them.

"Oh, woah, woah," a skinny one named Officer Thinsky said, readying his stun gun. "Not so fast, friend. Where do ya think you're goin'? What's the hurry? Don't you see the orange W on our chests?" He pointed at the Wattpad logo. "That means we get to dehumanize you and make your life a living hell. Legally, of course," he quickly added.

"Sorry, but I really must be going."

"Well, gee," MacPudge said. "Isn't that unfortunate, 'cause I was told you had a date with Gunny!" He swung the butt of his shotgun and I dodged out of its arc.

"Dancer, eh?" Thinsky said. "Dance out of this!" He shot his stun gun at me. The electrode darts attached to my arm. My internal voltage was too high and the electricity ended up being redirected through the darts' cables, back to the stun gun. It exploded in Thinsky's hand and took off a few of his fingers. "Ow!" he screamed, sucking on his bleeding stumps. Tears streaming down his cheeks, wincing, he tried to wrap his wounded hand in his black shirt.

MacPudge was radioing to HQ. "Illegal robot, illegal robot! Need backup! Officer down! I repeat, Officer Rails Thinsky is down and wounded!"

"I'm not illegal," I told him, rearranging my face back to normal. "I'm Zayn! My name is Zayn!"

"Illegal robot illegally impersonating Zayn! Send backup now!"

At this point, Thinsky was on the ground, sobbing softly. His skin was grey and he seemed close to death. "Piggy..." he whispered. "Hey... Piggster..."

MacPudge bent down. "What is it, Railsy?"

"Get... me... Zayn's... autograph..." Thinsky died.

"I didn't know you liked Zayn, Railsy."

Thinsky came back to life. "For... my... daughter..." He died again.

MacPudge wiped a single tear from his left eye. He stared at me. "You better not be lying, robot. Give me your John Hancock." He found a one-dollar bill in his pocket and thrust it towards me, along with a pen, which he clicked for me. "Sign."

I signed.

He took out his WattPhone and scanned the signature with the Spot-A-Fraud app. It let out a positive-sounding ding. His eyes widened. "Y— It's you!" MacPudge danced up and down. "Zayn! OMG! I loved your song 'Cha-la-la-la-la-la-la'! Can you sing it for me?"

"Uh, sure," I said. "Cha-la-la-la-la-la-la. Baby, you're my la-la-la. When we walk, you la-la-la. When we talk, I la-la-la. Cha-la-la-la-la-la-la. Let's go cha, let's la-la-la."

"Damnit, you're the best, Zayn! How about 'Angels Are Like Devils, Only Not Bad'?"

I sighed. "Angels, girl-hurl, are like devils, yeah-hah. Only not bad, woah-oah-woah. When I think of you, la-la-la-la-la. I realize you are my angel-la-la. 'Cause, baby, I'm your devil, woah."

MacPudge clapped so hard and fast his hands bled. "You're free to go, Zayn! Thanks for the autograph!" He pocketed it and shoved Officer Thinsky into a nearby storm drain.

My song "Don't Cry About Your Spilled Tears" started to play from my pocket. My phone. I dug it out and answered it. "Hello?"

"Zoyn, baby!" Troye.

"It's Zayn, Troye."

"Listen, Zoyn! Wattpad wants you to write an autobiography on what a hard life you've lived, mate!"

"I can't read or write, Troye. You know that."

"No worries, Zoyn, babe! The book's already written! It's called 'ZOYN'! All you gotta do is head over to HQ and do a little speech for a crowd! Easy peasy, lemon squeezy! Anyway, baby, I've gotta teach the New Losers your songs, love! Stay beautiful, Zoyn!"

Closing my eyes, I put the phone back into my pocket, and then made my way to Wattpad HQ.

And here I am.

I never got the motor oil sucked out of me, never realized the power of friendship with benefits, never wrote a book, never wrote my new hit single—which I hear is pretty good—and never apologized to Harry, Liam, Niall, Louis, Reggie, Malcolm and Carlos about ditching them to start my solo career.

I might be a virgin robot, but I am who I am. My name is Zayn.

Thank you.

Epilogue

Zayn finished speaking and the crowd erupted in applause. Smiling shyly, he bowed to the people, feeling overwhelmed by the enthusiastic clapping, hoots, hollers and bared breasts.

"Thanks, everyone," he said into the microphone. "I'll be signing autographs near the refreshments stand. Please don't sell them online. I'm only authorized to sign a million autographs in my lifetime. It's this new contract my manager signed for me..."

Hands in his pockets, Zayn wandered over to the keg of that orange drink that tastes identical to water. He felt so lonely. He poured himself a paper cup of orange drink and killed it in one swallow.

"Excuse me?" said a girl from behind.

He turned, hopeful. She was beautiful in ways robots only understood. Too perfect. Her eyes literally glowed. "What would you like signed? Let me guess—your boobs?"

The girl giggled. "No. If you sign them, they'll malfunction."

"You mean— You're a robot, too?"

She giggled again. "Of course. Listen, I heard your story, about girls using you because you're rich and famous. I don't know if you recognize me..."

"Wait—" And then Zayn did recognize the girl. "You're KatyPerry!"

"That's right. I've got as much money as you do, and I'm just as famous!"

"Wow! This will be amazing! Let's go have sex!"

Zayn and KatyPerry held hands and walked off to a broom closet together.

On the other side of the room, Troye Boningman stood with KatyPerry's manager, Derry Tuxedo—who was known for her collection of colourful tuxedos.

"Ain't that beautiful," Troye said to Derry. "Zoyn and KodyParrot getting together like that?"

Derry nodded. "Yes, Troye. This will be the perfect boost to their careers. And our wallets."

"And you know what'll be even better, babe? When they break up! Cha-ching!" Troye's eyes widened. He frantically hit the speed dial on his phone. "Zoyn, baby! How's this for your next hit single? 'Cha-ching'! It'll be a sequel to 'Cha-la-la-la-la-la-la,' mate! Oh, Zoyn, baby, I just heard the new track! Brilliant as always, babe! Mwah mwah mwah! Much love, Zoyn! Gotta go, baby!"