>>6324299

You briefly imagine yourself on stage in one of those frilly outfits and fall victim to red-hot, ear-burning embarrassment.
But your wobbly smile never leaves your face.
A life where you're not just begrudgingly tolerated, but welcomed.

Then, your phone beeps to break you out of the dream.
There's only 20% battery left. You charged it this afternoon, too.
Only 20% to find a new job to stave off homelessness for another week.

You sigh, eyes vacant as your mind tries to grasp the fleeing remnants of the waning dream.
The phone goes to sleep mode after a short moment of inactivity.
Reflected back at you in the dark screen is the visage of a skinny demon with no talent or charm.

A Lemure. Born to serve. And only serve.
Reminded from childhood onward to never aspire to anything lest you trouble your superiors.

The idea that something like you could stand on stage and delight the world with song and dance is downright ridiculous.

But, in here is okay.
Nobody can you see you in your apartment.
Thin walls that shield you from the world's scorn.

With your phone propped up against the wall, you use some precious battery to play one of Radiant Order's music videos.
The playful tunes emitted from the device are in sharp contrast to the dilapidated, chilly room.

Unsteadily rising to your feet, you gulp down the dregs of your stale beer to bring some warmth to your body and copy the dance performed in the video.

You're off-beat. You're drunk.
The sun has hidden behind horizon to flee from the sight of your performance.

Unlike other demonic subspecies, Lemures don't have talent.
You weren't born to be beautiful or charming. To be strong or intelligent.
The frustration barrier of skill acquisition is a close friend, nothing comes easy to a Lemure.

Lost in the moment and with the alcohol burning through your veins, you sing loudly.
Your best efforts mistaken by your direct neighbours to be the demonic chanting for an ascension ritual, they don't protest much for the same reason one wouldn't pluck a butterfly cocoon from a branch.

And in a way it is a form of ascension, but in a much more real way it totally isn't.
The neighbours are bound to end up disappointed if they were expecting you to look more mature or in any way different the following morning.

Phone on autoplay, one song blends into the next and you keep going until you utterly exhaust your limited stamina.
Finally, you fall to your knees with sweat dripping off your brow.
Slumping forward onto your stomach, the damp carpet takes you into wet, welcoming embrace.

Panting, you make up your mind.

The world may want to see you fail, but to conform to the expectations of those that don't have your best interests in mind is a sure path to misery.
Unknown to even yourself, the first step to change is an identity shift.

"...I'm g-gonna be an idol..I'll do it..." you stammer faintly, tearing up.