"And we won't hear a word they say
They don't know us anyway
Watch it burn, let it die
'Cause we are finally free tonight"
— Boys Like Girls

     According to an age-old Verastorian legend, there was once a star which fell to the earth. Before colliding with the surface, it split in two, sending each piece hurtling in a different direction until an entire ocean separated them. At the very moment they touched down, their light was absorbed by the earth and buried deep underground.
     It's been said that one day, the star's light will resurface and when it does, it will shine ever-so brightly, illuminating the darkest corners of the world. Everyone everywhere will celebrate its splendor and they will know peace.

     Wait. What?

     So, someone a long time ago said that a star broke in half and hit the earth. Through the lens of science, this would be problematic for a number of reasons, the chief concern being that all life on the planet would most likely cease to exist.
     Okay—maybe they didn't mean "star"; perhaps, they meant to say, "meteor", but "star" just sounded more poetic. That makes sense. Now, let's discuss the light being buried and the prediction that it will return someday. While this sounds a little far-fetched, the fact that it will bring a certain world-wide harmony comes off as naively optimistic. But, think about it—most prophecies have a similar construct. They leave an aftertaste of hope.
     This hope has the potential to be the driving factor for some, while others find it to be much more destructive than despair. Then, of course, there are those who live somewhere in between the two camps—in the gray area. These are individuals who experience incredible highs and devastating lows; this tends to make them more interesting than most. They're fascinatingly flawed and constantly, consistently conflicted.

     Keep this in mind while our story begins.

     It all started on a Friday night in August 2023. An audience of 16,500 people had just spent the last 52 minutes singing, screaming, and moshing, as their favorite pop-punk band—90 Percent Ninja—performed the tracks off their critically-acclaimed platinum album. The band's front man stepped up to his microphone. He had the face of an aristocratic Brit, the teeth of an upper-class American, and the complexion of a southeastern Asian. The spotlight brought out the flecks of blue in the gray of his eyes. He was a beautiful, cultural amalgam, representing the ever-growing, mixed-race multitudes from around the globe. And the world knew him as Rufus Spencer.
     "We love you, Houston!" he yelled, raising a fist in the air. "Thank you so much for hanging out with us tonight. We couldn't have asked for a better crowd for the last show of our tour."
     A tech walked out onto the stage and traded out guitars with Rufus. The audience erupted in cheers, knowing the band had one last song to play.
     "I've gotta admit," Rufus said as he wiped the sweat from his brow. "It feels damn good to be home. And it's not often that you're welcomed home with a sold-out show, here at The Pavilion." He reached for a water bottle and took a quick sip. "Before we bring all of this to a close, I'd like to take a moment and realize a lifelong dream of mine." Rufus cleared his throat and then sang out: "The stars at night... are big and bright..."
     Every single person in the crowd responded with four up-tempo claps before singing back in unison: "Deep in the heart of Texas!"
     It was as if someone had brainwashed the entire crowd at an early age and suddenly activated them using a couple lines of lyrics. Actually, that's not far from the truth.
     For those who aren't native Texans, this musical exchange is closely akin to the urge to clap after hearing the first line of the Friends theme song: "So, no one told you life was gonna be this way..."
     Rufus tapped the distortion pedal on the floor next to the base of his mic stand. "So, we really need to thank y'all for making this song Number 2 on The Billboard Top 100 List. You made it happen and we are forever grateful." The crowd roared. "Here it is, kids. The last song of the night. It's called 'Douchebag' and goes a little like this..."
     He began playing the hit single's distinct guitar riff; it was playful, melodic, and incredibly catchy. The rhythm and bass guitarists jumped in, filling out the sound, while the drummer drove the beat with a simple yet original cadence.
     Rufus took a deep breath and then started to sing:

"He wakes up every day
And then, he puts on 19 sprays
Of cheap cologne that he overpaid for
He smells like a man-whore

And I can't explain
Why all the dames
Would want to ascertain
What's in his pants
They'd rather run the chance
Of probably winnin'
Something that they'd have to fight off
With penicillin

In the 80's, they'd call him a tool
In the 90's, they'd say, 'Damn fool'
But, in today's vernacular
We've come up with something
That's far more spectacular

We just call him a douchebag
And the plague is spreading to where you are
He'll show up to town
In his jacked-up truck
With the windows down
And the bass turned up
And he'll think he's a badass
But, the truth is that he peaked
In his high school days
And he won't grow out of this phase
And it's just so sad
That he's nothing but a douchebag

Here's what you need to know
He's the guy who will want to show you
All the songs he knows on air guitar
Video games killed the rock star

And then, he'll take off his shirt
And show you tatts that he says didn't hurt
Then, he'll redress in that pink polo
With the starched and popped collar
He'll take her number down
With no intention to call her"

     The chorus repeated, followed by a notable guitar solo which flowed into one last pass at the chorus. The whole audience sang along the entire time, cheering and screaming during the instrumental interludes. Everyone marveled at Rufus' remarkable voice. It had a certain texture in his lower octave with a laser-focused, unwavering pitch in his upper register.
     The guitarists held out the ending chord of the song while the drummer repeatedly struck a variety of cymbals—crash, splash, China, ride. The tempo picked up for a moment and then slowed down considerably. The set came to a close with a final ringing chord, accented by a pair of crash cymbals.
     "Thank you, Houston! Goodnight!" Rufus yelled. He flicked his guitar pick into the crowded pit and walked off stage, waving to the audience.
     As he moved out of the eyeshot of his adoring fans, his posture relaxed, slowly sliding into a slouch. His smile faded, shifting into a blank, emotionless expression. Even his eyes lost their luster as his body continued to decompress.
     "Are you okay, Mr. Spencer?" asked a lanky, fresh-out-of-college twenty-something-year-old, who had quickly approached him.
     "Barret, we've talked about this," Rufus replied. "There's no need to be so formal. Please, call me Rufus. Everyone else does. Join the party."
     "I'm sorry, sir," Barret said, slightly bowing his head. "Military family—they kind of programmed me to be formal."
     "I understand," Rufus said as he patted Barret's shoulder. "But, I know you can break free from the conditioning. You can do it. I believe in you." Those words brought a smile to Barret's face. "And while we're hovering around the topic, let's drop the 'sir's', too."
     "Yes, s—" Barret began before cutting himself off. "I will do my best, Rufus."
     "That's what I like to hear," Rufus said while digging through the pockets of his jeans. "Where in the hell did I put my—"
     "Your vape?" Barret interjected. "I've got them right here. Nicotine or cannabis?"
     "Give me that!" barked a blue-eyed brunette as she swiftly swiped the "weed pen". She had an unparalleled, commanding presence with a severe stare that could force the most stubborn into compliance.
     "I'm sorry, Ms. Spencer," Barret said, bowing his head once again.
     "Apologies are a waste of breath," she fired back. "Now, go and do your job, gopher. Make sure the trailer is set up and ready for the interviews. And make doubly sure those so-called journalists know they only get five minutes a piece to ask their insipid, perfunctory questions. I'll be keeping time."
     "Yes, Ms. Spencer," Barret said. "Consider it done, Ms. Spencer."
     "Call her Savannah," chimed in Rufus. "It humanizes her."
     Savannah glared at Rufus. "I strongly advise you to do otherwise."
     "What? You don't want to be humanized?" Rufus said with a sly smile. "Come on, Mother Dearest. How will people know that you're not a cyborg with the shocking ability to suck the joy out of life?"
     "I'm not going to dignify that with a response," Savannah said flatly. Her icy stare turned to Barret. "And what exactly are you waiting for?"
     "Oh... Well, I'm not... I wasn't..." Barret replied, searching for an acceptable answer.
     "Turn and run," Rufus said. "It's the safest thing to do in this scenario."
     Barret took the advice immediately and scurried off, but not without accidentally bumping into a few stagehands moving the band's equipment into the wings.
     "Must you always embarrass me in front of the help?" Savannah questioned sternly.
     "Why, yes, I must and I will, as long as you keep referring to them as 'the help'," Rufus replied. "They deserve a certain level of respect; We couldn't do any of this without them."
     "I do respect them," Savannah stated. "I respect them when they complete their tasks as instructed."
     "Ah, conditional respect," Rufus said. "And what tyrant did you learn that from, Mother?"
     "We don't have time for this," Savannah replied, glancing at her smartwatch. "Follow me to the green room. We need to get you camera-ready. You look like you're at the end of a three-day bender. Why do you look so awful?"
     "Um, I just finished an 8-month tour," Rufus said, sighing deeply. "That's a little taxing for the common man."
     "But, you are not common," Savannah said as she walked away, gesturing to her son to follow. "People don't pay to see 'common'; they pay to witness the extraordinary. They drive miles and miles in their moderately-priced cars and wedge themselves into a packed, sold-out venue, hoping to escape their mediocre, hum-drum lives by experiencing... what? That's right—the extraordinary. And that's exactly what you are, Roo. You are extraordinary." She suddenly stopped and pointed to a stagehand. "You there—make sure the roto-toms are packed in a separate case. Let's not forget about what happened in San Diego."
     Savannah continued forward, quickening her pace as she shouted out orders. Rufus tried to keep up, but mental and physical exhaustion started weighing down on him.
     "What's the matter?" Savannah called out to Rufus, who was several feet behind her. "Do you need a Red Bull? Someone tell the gopher to bring Mr. Spencer a Red Bull!"
     "It's okay. Really," Rufus said, holding up a hand. "I just needed a minute." Savannah pressed on as Rufus jogged to catch up. While he closed the distance between them, he whispered to himself, "Extraordinary. Be extraordinary."
     He soon found himself in a swiveling leather chair, flanked by a makeup artist and a wardrobe stylist who were smoothing all the imperfections that could be captured by high-definition video. After 20 minutes of grooming, he was escorted to the trailer designated for interviews. Inside, the walls had been covered up with a black fabric while the lighting equipment had been meticulously placed in order to eliminate shadows without washing out the interviewer or Rufus, especially.
     Rufus sat down where the producers wanted him and a PA carefully clipped a lapel microphone to the collar of his blink-182 concert tee. Rufus took a deep breath, sat up straight, and began to mentally prepare himself for the socially-approved interrogations he was about to endure.
     "Mr. Spencer?" one of the producers said, trying to get his attention.
     "Yes?" he replied, meeting eyes with the producer.
     "I've put your backpack by this lighting rig over here. Remember to grab it before you leave. Otherwise, it will be packed up with all this equipment."
     "Thank you. I appreciate the heads-up."
     A few minutes went by while the production team fiddled with camera placement. As soon as they were satisfied, they called in the first interviewer.
     A couple questions into the interview, Rufus was asked point-blank: "Do you mind the title 'Popstar'?" This was a surprisingly thought-provoking question—an exceedingly rare treat.
     Rufus grinned. "I know there are those who would consider 'Popstar' to be a touch effeminate, even a little insulting, but it honestly doesn't phase me at all. 90 Percent Ninja proudly plays pop-punk music, so I can understand why people would label me this way. But, think about it—'Beat It' by Michael Jackson. Now, that's a song that rocks pretty hard with not only an amazing lead-off riff, but an equally amazing guitar solo. And MJ was The King of Pop. When you take all of that into consideration, being a 'Popstar'—it's really not so terrible."
     The second interview consisted of a number of questions Rufus had already answered in the past, so he momentarily slipped into "auto-pilot" mode, giving generic responses to generic inquiries. It did, however, end with the interviewer asking something relevant: "Will you continue your acting career?"
     This was something Rufus had given a great deal of thought. His entire entertainment career was built on a foundation of several Silver Screen performances. He had just recently added "Recording Artist" to his impressive résumé.
     "In a way, I'm following in the footsteps of Jared Leto of Thirty Seconds to Mars and Jack Black of Tenacious D," Rufus explained. "Both have successfully made careers in two different worlds. In one, there's red carpet premieres and brass-rimmed stars on Hollywood Boulevard; In the other, fully-stocked tour buses and insanely wicked mosh pits. Now, I really think this should be said: To be a part of just one of these worlds is amazing; To be a part of both—well—that's a privilege. And I plan on keeping that privilege. So, to answer your question simply, yes. I have every intention of moving forward with acting; however, it will have to wait until after our world tour, which kicks off on New Year's Day 2024."
     The interviewer shook Rufus' hand and thanked him for his time before being escorted out. Rufus took a sip of water and then began massaging his temples, mentally preparing himself for the next line of questioning.
     One of the producers was receiving a message on her headset and instructed everyone to be quiet. After a moment, she cleared her throat and snapped her fingers in the air.
     "Okay, people," she called out. "Let's clear the room."
     While everyone hustled out, Rufus stood up and removed the lapel microphone.
     "You've been asked to stay," the producer said, holding up her hand. Rufus sat back down as his curiosity grew more and more. The producer exited the trailer, leaving Rufus all alone.
     He folded his hands together in his lap and tapped his thumbs as the seconds ticked by. The silence was soothing. It was something that eluded Rufus for several months. If he wasn't playing music, he was giving interviews and if he wasn't doing that, he was fighting for sleep on a noisy tour bus. He finally allowed himself to relax, drawing in a deep breath. Suddenly, all of the lights cut out, leaving Rufus in complete darkness.
     And this is how I die, he thought to himself.
     "Hello?" he shouted. The silence was not so soothing this time around. "Seriously?"
     The lights flickered for a few seconds and then slowly faded on. After his eyes adjusted, Rufus gasped. Sitting across from him was an incredibly attractive platinum blonde with gorgeous hazel eyes.
     "Good evening, Mr. Spencer," she said with a silky English accent. "I would apologize for the theatrics, but I truly find them to be quite fun, don't you?"
     Rufus reached for words, but nothing could convey what he really felt at that particular moment. The combination of this woman's undeniable beauty and her alluring voice made her astonishingly intimidating.
      "I've heard you to be a witty young man," she said, sighing. "Frankly, I'm a little disappointed."
     "I'm... sorry?" Rufus said slowly, finally forcing out words.
     "Apologies are unnecessary," she replied. "I'll simply adjust my expectations."
     "O...kay..." Rufus said, still struggling.
     "I should introduce myself. How rude of me. My name is Quinn Gunnerson, a courtier to The Prince of Verastoria. I am here to extend an invitation for an audience with the prince."
     "Wow. Alright. What?"
     Quinn pursed her lips and tried a more direct, less formal approach. "The prince—he wants to meet you."
     "Okay. Good," Rufus replied as he collected his thoughts. After a moment, it dawned on him. "I can't. I can't meet the prince, are you kidding me? I have a ton of interviews left and after that, there's the designated time for autographs and after that, there's the schmoozing of VIP's and after that—"
     "My God," Quinn interrupted. "Here I thought you Americans do things in the pursuit of happiness. Is that not how it goes?"
     "Well, yeah, but—"
     "Everything that you do—will it all ultimately lead you to happiness?"
     "I mean, that's the dream, but—"
     "Why not try something a little different, a little bold perhaps?"
     Rufus arched his eyebrow. "Like drop everything and meet with this prince of yours?"
     "By George, I think he's got it," Quinn replied with a smile.
     "I don't know," Rufus said, really thinking about it.
     "Aren't you tired of being tired? Fed up with the relentless paparazzi? Don't you want an actual vacation, one where you quite literally vacate your life?"
     "A vacation..." Rufus whispered. The word felt exceptionally foreign.
     "The prince can provide an out. Temporarily, of course, but it's an out nonetheless."
     "So, it's some kind of all-expense-paid getaway?"
     "It's a tad more complicated," Quinn admitted. "Take the meeting with the prince. He can explain everything."
     "My mother is going to be so pissed."
     "Is that a yes?"
     "Look, I don't know if you realize this, but I wouldn't make it 10 feet from this trailer without being spotted."
     "Do you really think I would have come all this way unprepared?" Quinn asked as she picked up the large Louis Vuitton bag next to her feet and placed it in her lap.
     Rufus started to think it all through. "This is crazy."
     "Maybe you need a little crazy."
     Rufus took a deep breath. "Okay. What's the plan? Tell me now before I change my mind."
     Quinn reached in her bag and took out an entire outfit in a vacuum-sealed plastic bag. It was low-profile, generic clothing, along with a purple cadet hat and a pair of silver aviators. She handed all of it to Rufus.
     "Now, pay attention," she instructed, holding up a finger. "As soon as I leave this trailer, you will have 12 minutes to change your clothes and make your way to the black town car parked at the crew entrance. Security will be distracted and diversions are already in place for an easy escape." Quinn stood up and walked toward the door. She turned the knob and looked back at Rufus. "Remember—you're on the clock," she said just before stepping out of the trailer and quietly closing the door.
     Rufus immediately started looking for a seam or perforation on the plastic bag containing his change of clothes. The plastic was heavy and high-quality, so simply ripping it open wasn't an option. Growling in frustration, he went with a more infantile tactic: tear it open with teeth. After a few seconds of gnawing, he became so flustered that he threw the bag to the ground, face-down. That was when he noticed the round button on the back of the bag. He pressed it gently with his index finger. The bag hissed and then started to deteriorate. The plastic slowly shifted from a heavy-duty lining to a thick, odorless vapor. Soon, all that was left was Rufus' new outfit and the round button.
     Time was running out. Rufus frantically changed, hopping around on one foot while trying to get the other through the pant leg of a pair of stone-washed jeans. Once all garments and accessories were in place, he grabbed his backpack by the lighting rig and then rushed out the door.
     Rufus looked left. No one was there. He looked right. Again, not a soul. He couldn't believe it. This just might work.
     He walked quickly and quietly, keeping in mind that he had only a few minutes left. He rounded a corner and froze in his tracks. Savannah was off in the distance, supervising the stagehands. A voice from the catwalk above called out to her.
     "Those lighting gels need to go in the box labeled 'FRAGILE'!" she yelled before rushing in the opposite direction, away from Rufus.
     He exhaled deeply. After making sure the coast was clear, he ran down the final stretch, passing through the crew entrance. And there it was, parked against the curb—his getaway car. The rear door opened and Quinn stuck her head out.
     "Get in," she urged.
     Rufus climbed in and shut the door. While he fidgeted with his seatbelt, the tires squealed against the pavement, spinning in place for a second. Then, the rubber gripped the road and the town car zoomed forward.
     As they traveled downtown, Quinn asked Rufus about his experiences from touring America with his band. Rufus expounded on the pros and cons of playing music for the masses. The electric energy from the crowds was unbelievably gratifying and, at the same time, incredibly addictive. Every night, Rufus stepped out on stage and let that energy course through his veins. This carried him through the set; however, once that last chord had been strummed, inevitable exhaustion crept in, crippling him. Quinn wondered if the highs were worth the lows. Rufus explained that he never broke things down like that. It had never been about highs and lows or peaks and valleys. He focused on two things: accomplishments and obstacles. From this perspective, it's easier to keep an optimistic mindset.
     After conversing about the awkward situations with die-hard fanatics which always seemed to occur in public restrooms, the town car came to a screeching halt. Rufus looked out the window. They had arrived at The Marriott Marquis, one of Houston's finest hotels. It had a sleek, contemporary style and mainly catered to run-of-the-mill business travelers as well as upper-middle-class families who believe Motel 6 is beneath them.
     "Follow me," Quinn stated, opening her door.
     Rufus strapped on his backpack and did as he was told, tailing Quinn while she walked briskly through the high-ceiling lobby. They caught an elevator, taking it to the top floor of the hotel. A dulcet bell rang out and the doors opened, revealing a long corridor. Rufus was drawn to a window, adjacent to the elevator, which had a picturesque view of the city's skyline. After a moment of admiration, he looked down below and saw a pool—actually, it was more of a "lazy river"—in the shape of Texas. This brought a smile to his face.
     "Only in Texas," he whispered to himself.
     Quinn inserted a key card into the lock of one of the doors. The lock chirped and disengaged. She opened the door and gestured to Rufus to follow her inside.
     She guided him through the foyer and into the living room of the suite. There, a mysterious figure with his back turned to Rufus stood in front of an enormous television, flipping through the channels, completely oblivious to the fact he now had company.
     Quinn cleared her throat. "Your Royal Highness, I would like to present Mr. Rufus Spencer."
     The prince shut off the television and turned around slowly. Rufus' eyes widened and he stood, absolutely awestruck. The prince's sandy brown hair, his button nose, his toothy grin, his square chin, his gray eyes—all of his features mirrored Rufus'. He was Rufus 2.0, a carbon copy of the massively popular popstar.
     "It's not possible," Rufus muttered. "Is this some kind of magic trick?"
     "No, no, Mr. Spencer," the prince answered. "This isn't magic. Unfortunately, I'm just a mere Muggle."
     Rufus found it very strange to hear his voice coming out of someone else's body, even though it was lined with a heavy English accent. It was honestly a little disturbing.
     "Allow me to make a proper introduction," he said, straightening his posture. "Greetings, I am Prince Vincent of Verastoria. I've summoned you here to discuss an idea, one that I believe will benefit us both."
     "I was told you want to whisk me away," Rufus replied, glancing at Quinn.
     "Well, that is true, but it's also just the tip of the iceberg," Vincent said, crossing his arms.
     "Intriguing. Okay, you have my attention."
     "Fantastic," Vincent said as he reached for the thick manila envelope on the coffee table. "We have much to discuss."