Upvoted
A friend wanted to see if I could write something that wasn't smut. :)
So here's a short story about the potential future of social media. It's about a young pantheress trying to find success in a dystopian social media driven future.
"The performance is everything, because the audience is everything. If you ever forget that, you're nothing."
The words of Jean's mentor echoed through her mind, as they often did before she started broadcasting. The anthropomorphic pantheress could see his face so clearly in her mind's eye, the spotty feline's visage always so stern when he was teaching. That mental image didn't capture the old cheetah's kindness, or warmth, or depth of character; but those aspects of her teacher wouldn't help the pantheress over the course of the next few minutes.
The feline had to banish all memories of the cheetah's tragic passing in order to focus on the here and now. She examined herself in the floor-length mirror, making sure that everything was absolutely perfect before the live-stream started. Her black fur glistened in the almost unbearably bright light of her studio apartment. A lot of the cam-stars were wearing fake lashes for their broadcasts, but Jean preferred to keep her lashes natural, in order to accentuate the depth of her emerald green eyes. A plain white strapped top covered her small chest, the material abruptly ending halfway down her rib cage. This left her toned mid-drift bare above that elegant, powder blue skirt. She was bare from the knee down, as befit her particular style.
The term 'studio apartment' meant something different to performers like Jean. It was, indeed, a single room dwelling; the bedroom was open to the living area, separated from the kitchen by tall counters that doubled as a dining room table. Only the restroom and the closet provided any kind of artificial isolation from the cameras. There were cameras because, in a very real sense, the apartment was also a studio. Heavy gear hung from the rafters to provide continuous high-key or low-key lighting as needed. All of the walls were covered in green screen paint to provide custom background options. And of course, half a dozen auto-tracking cameras were available to capture all of the action in any area of the apartment, from kitchen to bedroom.
The feline glanced at the clock. 2 minutes until showtime.
Jean took up her position in the only open area available: The centre of the hardwood floor. It was worn from frequent use, but sanded to perfect smoothness and treated with a coat of quick dry varnish. The pantheress entended and retracted her footclaws a few times. Then she stretched her calves and thighs, muscles rippling under the fine black fur. The cat bent to touch her toes just as the one minute warning chime sounded. Satisfied that she wouldn't cramp, the woman rumbled, "Queue up 'Lux Aeterna' 74 seconds in." She rolled her neck clockwise, then counter-clockwise, shaking out the nervousness in her arm muscles as the clock ticked down.
When the lights on the cameras all flicked to green, she locked her gaze on Camera 1. The music started to play, a slow orchestral introduction. The pantheress started in fifth position, then allowed her feet to lead. Each step was slow and with purpose at first, adagio, with her tail swishing slowly behind. Then she fell into the rhythm, almost marching, pas de valse. With the first minor build up in the music, she executed four beautiful pirouettes.
But the classical ballet was just a warm up. A tease.
When the second major swelling of the orchestra hit the cat's twitching black ears, she dug her hindclaws into the wood and launched her muscular body into a single-twisting back flip. Soon she was weaving classical ballet with acrobatics and modern dance. Her light blue skirt billowed as she spun. The floor was scarred when claws dragged her body to a sudden halt, only to shift and launch her in another direction. Only a creature with sharp claws and incredible balance could move like this. The cameras tracked every movement intently, as the orchestral piece reached its climax.
Three and three-quarters minutes of strenuous dancing had taken Jean right to the ragged edge. She found herself back in the centre of her dance area for the grand finale'. The feline started to spin on the balls of one foot, using the other to dig in with hindclaws and create the required torque. She whipped her head around with every rotation, so that she could look directly at the camera whenever possible. It was also a trick to avoid getting dizzy during an intense rotation such as this. As the peak in the music died, she dropped heavily to the ground and hung her head. The lights faded. The music stopped.
Each of the cameras showed a red light and a klaxon sounded, indicating that the show was over. Still gasping for breath, Jean half walked, half staggered over to her computer. Her tail dragged along the floor with every step that she took. She watched nervously as the audience's reaction to her new piece was calculated. The cat's paws balled up into fists. She could barely breathe.
The results were in: 1389 upvotes.
The pantheress let out an exhausted yowl of victory. Immediately, she brought up the shopping cart. 400 upvotes spent on fresh water, as she was nearly out. 400 more spent on food... she hadn't eaten in over a day. 50 upvotes for more floor wax, 20 for fine grit sandpaper. 50 on grey water and 15 on soap so that she could have a proper shower. She'd earn a couple dozen more upvotes from rebroadcasting, that would cover miscellaneous expenses for the day.
She banked over 400 upvotes for her new performance. It gave her hope. Maybe she would go viral! If she hit it big, Jean might earn the right to do more than one show a day. Maybe she would be allowed to branch out into more profitable sectors... reality, night-time, talk shows. If that happened, she might even be allowed to buy a door and venture out of her apartment!
Jean leaned back in her chair and tried to relax. The cat's belly rumbled violently, but she willed it to be patient. When her refrigerator went into lock-down, the back would be removed and it would be loaded up from behind. Then she could finally eat, unlike many of the residents of Low Income Entertainment Flat 17. She reminded herself just how lucky she was: Hundreds of entertainers had their programs cancelled every night.
The pantheress' memory drifted back to her mentor's final performance. She had been one of perhaps a dozen viewers that night. The cheetah just talked. He talked about how much he loved dancing. He talked right up until the broadcast ended, and each of the cameras' lights turned red, forever.