033 Idol Arc 9: The Chosen One, Kirara
There’s good news and bad news.
The impact of using the G-Bullet was… well, let’s just say it was *something*.
The footage from the final match of the simulation tournament, Beginner Class 3 Fleet Division, was being streamed live, and people with sharp eyes were already latching on.
The video went viral—view counts on the on-demand stream skyrocketed.
Revenue from the video views is split evenly between the Thunderclap Fleet and me.
That’s a decent chunk of change.
That’s the good news.
Another good thing.
My Personal Ship leveled up. Apparently ships grow even in simulation battles.
Leveling up, though, just means the equipment gets slightly better. Nothing flashy.
Another type of Railgun special ammo has been added.
An Erosion Bullet, apparently.
Can’t say for sure what it does until you fire it—though I’d really prefer not to cause another incident just to find out.
Yeah. The incident. That’s the bad news.
A flood of emails—what you’d call “inquiries,” but really just interrogations—poured in.
Didn’t check them all individually.
The AI had already sorted them by content. That’s how I knew.
In this world (SFO), personal AIs don’t have the concept of “communication freedom.”
They’re treated as part of the individual—opening private messages without consent? No issue.
One glance and I was already sick of it. Ignored it. Trusted the AI. Didn’t read the rest. Straight to the trash.
Even the recruitment emails for the fleet were insane.
Makes sense, I guess, once you’re a combat asset. But showing up again after being rejected so hard? That’s a full palm-turn. Unbelievable.
Still, I’d like to avoid using G-Bullet in future simulations.
Of course, they’ll push hard to use it.
That’s the whole point, after all.
Better send out a standard rejection template to everyone at once.
Next, individual duel requests wouldn’t stop coming in.
All of them were betting matches.
Just trying to crush my small, weak fleet and steal the G-Bullet—pathetic little schemers.
These guys know about the G-Bullet’s existence.
Naturally, ignore them. Toss them aside.
Keep in mind, though, that future simulated tournament appearances might become harder due to harassment.
Akira’s fleet specs are confidential.
What equipment they have, what ship types are in their fleet—only the broadcast footage is the source of truth.
The only thing publicly known? That the leader is G-N Akira.
Because of this “convenient but annoying” system that lets you send direct messages once you know their GN code—hence this whole mess.
You can set up spam filters or block incoming messages, sure. But then you risk being ostracized by the whole community.
That’s why I have to check the emails that need checking.
Going through the ones sorted by AI.
Opening the one tagged as most important.
It’s a work notice from the Ministry of Administration.
Scanning it, it’s a manual on emergency conscription.
Looks like the debt repayment labor is finally starting.
And lastly, one email from a contact.
From President Kamizawa of that idol fleet audition.
“Congratulations. You’ve passed the final audition.
Please come to our office, Kamizawa Promotion SFO Branch.”
“Wait… didn’t I already say no?”
You don’t just ghost someone like that. You either send a certified letter for proof, or you face them and say no properly.
Fine. I’ll go to the office and say it in person.
I decided to book an appointment and head over to the entertainment agency “President Kamizawa Promotion SFO Branch.”
Kamizawa Promotion mainly handled gravure work—launching gravure idols, producing a few moderately successful ones in the past.
But lately, they’d been struggling hard, crushed under the dominance of a certain national idol phenomenon.
Especially Brush Lips (brashlips)—highly rated for both talent and looks—were getting shafted on TV appearances.
Gravure itself had been invaded by that national idol, and now the gravure girls had to show up empty-handed, shoot for free, and count themselves lucky just to get a photo in a magazine.
So, capitalizing on the gap in the market, President Kamizawa had supposedly launched a promotional venture on the SFO—commonly known as the Idol Fleet.
Arrived at the President Kamizawa Promotion SFO Branch Office.
Led into the conference room, there they were—Naho, Saya, and Miyu, the three members of Brush Lips, all gathered together.
Beautiful. And active idols. Right in front of me. I’m sweating, twitching, completely unbalanced.
Then President Kamizawa approached, arms wide, practically ready to hug me.
“Hey, Akira-chan, I’ve been waiting.”
I dodge. Full force.
“Haha, so cold.”
Got hit with the first move. But this is the perfect moment to shut it down.
“I already told you the other day—I’m not—‘just a little while!’”
President Kamizawa cuts me off mid-sentence.
“First, let me get introductions out of the way.”
President Kamizawa had the three idols introduce themselves.
I swallowed my refusal mid-sentence, caught up in the moment.
“Hi~! I’m Naho, the leader~!”
“Smile specialist, Saya here~!”
“Quiet type, Miu……”
“““Ready. Three of us, brushing lips (brushlips)~! Nice to meet you~! (……)”””
“Ah, I’m Akira.”
I’m left dangling, my words cut short, as President Kamizawa takes control.
“Seems like the mock battle’s really messed things up, huh?”
“True, but that’s not really the point—this and that aren’t ‘different,’ you know.”
“We’ve got a countermeasure ready. It’s this…”
According to President Kamizawa, the plan was simple: become an idol, play a different person, and act accordingly.
Just change your makeup and use a stage name—nobody would suspect you’re the same person.
“Can you really do that?”
I leaned in, assuming he was just making stuff up.
“Then, look at her.”
President Kamizawa pointed with his right hand toward Naoh.
I looked at Naoh—and she turned slightly, adjusting her makeup.
She pushed up her glasses, tied her long hair into a single knot, and turned her face toward me.
There she was—Tanpopo (a little more glamorous than usual).
For the record, she hadn’t stripped off her makeup and gone natural. No. She’d layered a beautiful, polished look over her natural beauty, then added a touch of plain, understated makeup.
“T-Tanpopo-san?! Is that really you?!”
“That’s right. I can pull off a transformation like this, you know. ♡”
“…I totally missed it.”
I was told that once you’re an idol, even if you get hit with the same kind of email ambush as today, you can handle it just like any stalker—no big deal.
Apparently, it’s just routine for idols.
In fact, the presence of the agency makes things safer than ever.
Akira being stalked made fleet operations easier than ever.
But I’m determined to refuse, so I point out the issue with stage names.
“Still, the government won’t allow stage names, right? GN’s basically the same thing.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve already convinced them stage names are essential for idol work—and got permission.”
The groundwork was already laid. I was speechless.
The conversation just kept moving forward.
“How about ‘Kira-ra,’ based on Shikara’s name reading?”
“That’s… too girly.” She hesitated.
“How about ‘Kira-ri’ then?”
(Why the hell would you pick a legendary idol name?! That’s as dangerous as making someone claim the names of Mi-Mei or Ra-Ka!)
“If you use that name, fans’ll kill you! Please, just don’t!” I begged.
Reluctantly, we settled on ‘Kira-ra.’
So this is what that glittery name thing is like.
Our debut as an idol was decided in the liminal space between existence and nonexistence.
Naho-san immediately dropped the breaking news on the official SNS: "The qualified ones—Kira-ra."
"Wait a second! Nobody seems to notice, so I’ll just say it— I’m a guy, okay?"
"Huh?" "What?" "Hehehe." "..."
The road ahead looked grim.
This was probably the worst possible scenario.
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