The "Shooting Star Entertainment" is holding auditions. Many people gathered in the lobby, waiting for their turn to audition. Each dreams of stardom, of escaping the ordinary. Today could be the day.
Inside, the audition room is a stark contrast to the hopeful chaos outside. Fluorescent lights glare down on a small stage, marked with tape. Three judges sit behind a long table, faces impassive with clipboards in hand.
A girl with bright pink hair belts out a pop song, hitting every note accurately. Next, a guy juggles flaming torches. Another strums an acoustic guitar, singing a heartfelt ballad about lost love.
The judges remained unimpressed, dismissing most of the hopefuls.
"Thank you," the head judge says, her voice flat. She barely glances up from her notes. "We'll be in touch."
The female singer shuffles off stage, her shoulders slumped.
"Next up, Axl,"
Axl strolls onto the stage like he owns the place. He's the picture of a casual rockstar: spiky, fiery red hair, ripped jeans, a leather jacket slung over a band T-shirt. A guitar pick hangs from a chain around his neck, and fingerless gloves cover his hands. Confidence practically rolls off him in waves.
He plugs in his guitar, gives the judges a cocky grin. "Axl, at your service. I'm about to blow your minds." He winks. "You might wanna hold onto your wigs."
One of the judges, a middle-aged man with a receding hairline, raises an eyebrow. "Just play your song, please."
Axl chuckles, strums a chord. "Alright, alright. But don't say I didn't warn ya. This one's gonna be legendary."
Axl launches into his song. It's a high-energy rock anthem, full of soaring guitar riffs and catchy lyrics about chasing dreams and breaking free. He struts across the stage, working the (nonexistent) crowd. He windmills his arm, jumps, and even does a clumsy attempt at a guitar slide.
From the judges' perspective, it's... fine.
Another wannabe rockstar, the head judge thinks, stifling a yawn. The music is generic, the lyrics are cliché, and his stage presence is more try-hard than captivating.
The middle-aged judge drums his fingers on the table, unimpressed. Technically proficient, I'll give him that. But there's no originality, no spark. Just a paint-by-numbers rock performance.
The third judge, a young woman with a sharp eye for talent, sighs inwardly. He's got the look, I guess. But the whole package feels… forced. Like he's playing a character rather than being himself.
Axl finishes with a flourish, striking a rockstar pose as the last chord rings out. He beams at the judges, clearly expecting praise. "So? Did I rock your world, or what?"
The head judge clears her throat. "Thank you, Axl. We'll, uh, be in touch."
Axl's grin falters slightly. "So, that's a yes? I'm in?"
"We have many talented performers to consider," the middle-aged judge says, carefully avoiding eye contact. "We'll let you know our decision in a few days."
Translation: Don't call us, we'll call you, the young woman thinks, feeling a twinge of sympathy for the guy. But honestly, he's just not what we're looking for.
Axl, oblivious to their lukewarm reactions, shrugs. "Alright, cool. Just try not to take too long, okay? The world needs to hear my music."
He grabs his guitar and saunters off stage. "Next!" the woman with the severe bun calls out, already shuffling through her papers.
Axl exits the audition room, his confidence seemingly unshaken.
* * *
Axl strides out of Shooting Star Entertainment, guitar case slung over his shoulder. "Bet those judges were blown away by my performance," he mutters to himself. He pictures the scene: the phone ringing, a frantic executive begging him to sign, his face plastered on billboards. Fame. Fortune. It's all within reach.
He can already see it: stadiums packed to the rafters, every single person chanting his name. "[AXL! AXL! AXL!]" The stage lights blind him in the best way possible. He shreds a face-melting solo. The crowd goes wild.
Suddenly, [THUMP].
Axl's fantasy screeches to a halt as he slams face-first into a lamppost. His guitar case clatters to the ground. "Oof!" He staggers back, rubbing his nose. "Whoops! Guess I'm just too cool for this place."
A street performer with a painted face gives him a withering look. Axl winces. Maybe the stadium tour is still a little ways off.
Axl sighs, picking up his guitar case. The judges' lukewarm reception still stings a little. He tries to shrug it off. They just don't get him. They're probably jealous.
He starts the trek back to his apartment. It's a decent walk, but hey, free exercise, right? Plus, he needs the time to mentally prepare his acceptance speech for when the record label calls. Any minute now.
The apartment building is nothing fancy. "Modest" is probably the kindest word for it. Axl unlocks the door to his place. "Home sweet… well, home," he mutters.
The place is a disaster zone. Clothes are strewn across the floor, guitar picks litter every surface, and there's a general air of "lived-in chaos." He hasn't had time to clean. Between gigs, auditions, and perfecting his stage presence in front of the mirror, cleaning gets put on the back burner.
His stomach rumbles, reminding him that rockstar dreams don't pay the bills—or buy groceries. He heads to the cupboard. Jackpot! Instant noodles. A culinary masterpiece for the discerning artist. He boils water and dumps the noodles into a cracked bowl. Gourmet.
As he waits for his "dinner" to cook, Axl fires up his laptop. Time to check in with his adoring fans. He navigates to YouTube and clicks on his channel: "Axl Rocks." He's been at it for years, posting covers, original songs, and the occasional vlog.
The subscriber count hovers around 1,000. Not exactly stadium numbers. Most of his videos barely crack a few hundred views. He scrolls through the comments. A couple of supportive messages from his mom, a few generic "nice song" comments, and the occasional troll.
Axl takes a deep breath. It's a marathon, not a sprint. Rome wasn't built in a day. And rockstar legends don't get discovered overnight, either. He just needs that one viral video. That one big break. It's coming. He can feel it.
Axl stirs his noodles, then grabs his phone. He props it up against a stack of CDs, angles it just right to catch his best side, and hits record.
"Yo, what up, rockers?!" he says, flashing a grin. "Axl here, back with another face-melting performance for your earholes!"
He grabs his guitar, strikes a pose, and launches into a cover of "Living on a Prayer." Bon Jovi. Classic. Can't go wrong. He strums the opening chords, channeling all his inner rockstar energy.
Okay, Axl, own it. This is your moment.
He belts out the lyrics, hitting (most of) the high notes. He throws in a few guitar flourishes, improvising a little, adding his own personal touch.
He finishes the song with a flourish, striking another pose. "Yeah!" he shouts, pumping his fist. "That's how it's done!"
He stops the recording and watches it back. He cringes a little at his awkwardness, but overall, it's not bad. The sound quality is decent, the lighting is… well, it's there. And his performance? Solid. He's definitely brought the rockstar vibe.
"Alright, internet," he says to the screen, "get ready to be amazed."
He opens the YouTube app and starts uploading the video. He types in a catchy title: "Axl Rocks Bon Jovi! You Won't Believe Your Ears!" He adds some relevant tags: #rock #guitar #cover #bonjovi #music #axlrocks.
He sets the video to public, adds it to his "Axl Rocks" playlist, and hits publish. Done. It's out there. Now all he has to do is wait for the views to roll in.
He watches the progress bar slowly fill up. 1%... 5%... 10%... It feels like an eternity.
While the video uploads, Axl eats his noodles, scrolling through his social media feeds. More audition notices, a few messages from his mom, and a bunch of random ads. Nothing exciting.
Finally, the upload completes. "Video published!" the screen announces. Axl clicks on the video and watches it one more time. He gives it a thumbs up and leaves a comment: "Axl Rocks! Check it out!"
Now, the waiting game begins.
Axl glances at the window. Still daylight. The YouTube views aren't exactly flooding in yet—three views, all probably his mom—so Plan B it is. Street performance. It's not exactly stadium rock, but it pays the bills (sort of) and gets his name out there (maybe).
He grabs his guitar case, slings it over his shoulder, and heads out. Time to bring the rock to the streets. He closes and locks the door. Axl bounces down the stairs, already picturing the crowd that will gather around him.
Axl heads to the park when he suddenly hears barking noises.
[BARK! BARK!]
He sees a scruffy mutt with a cocky attitude is standing in the middle of the sidewalk, barking right at him. Axl stops dead in his tracks. "Hey, shoo! Get outta here, dog!"
The dog doesn't budge. It barks louder, its tail wagging furiously, like it's daring Axl to pass. "Seriously? I haven't got time for this." Axl tries to sidestep, but the dog mirrors his movement, blocking his path.
"Look, I'm trying to mind my own business here," Axl says, his voice rising in frustration. "Go chase a squirrel or something!"
The dog ignores him, letting out another volley of barks. Axl sighs. Okay, Plan B. He takes a step back, hoping the dog will lose interest.
Big mistake.
The dog takes it as a challenge and lunges forward, nipping at his heels. "Hey! What the heck?!" Axl yelps, breaking into a run. He glances back to see the dog hot on his tail, a furry, four-legged missile of chaos.
"Get away from me, you mangy mutt!" Axl shouts, his guitar case bouncing against his back. He's not exactly built for sprinting, and the dog is gaining on him.
Axl's lungs burn as he puts some distance between himself and the canine menace. Just when he thinks he's in the clear, he collides with something solid.
"Oof!"
He stumbles back and sees a high school kid with a bowl cut and glasses. The kid looks flustered. "Oh, I'm so sorry!"
Before Axl can unleash his frustration, the kid kneels down and starts talking to the dog in a soothing voice. "Brutus, no! Bad dog! You can't go around biting people."
The dog—Brutus, apparently—immediately calms down, tail wagging tentatively. What? Axl is stunned. Is this kid Dr. Doolittle or something?
The kid looks up at Axl, his face etched with concern. "I'm really sorry about him. He doesn't usually act like this."
Axl crosses his arms, still catching his breath. "Is that your dog?"
The kid shakes his head. "No, he's a stray. I just… I feed the animals around here sometimes. I know him."
Axl rolls his eyes. "Well, keep your stray away from me. I have places to be." He gestures vaguely down the street, then brushes past the kid, muttering, "Take care of your dog."
Axl heads towards the park, rubbing his now throbbing heel. He glares back at the kid and the dog, then shakes his head and mutters. "Some people..."
Axl arrives at the park, scanning for a prime performance spot. He needs a place with good foot traffic, but not too close to the playground—he's not exactly aiming for the toddler demographic.
"Perfect," he mutters, spotting a relatively open area near the fountain.
As he starts setting up, a girl with bright blonde hair barrels towards him, clutching a box filled with… stuff. Gadgets? Toys? It's hard to tell.
"Hey there, potential customer!" she says, her voice a little too loud. "You look like a discerning individual with an appreciation for cutting-edge technology!"
Axl raises an eyebrow. "Uh, thanks? I'm kinda busy."
"Nonsense! You need this!" She shoves a contraption that looks suspiciously like a robotic dust bunny in his face. "It's the Fuzzinator 5000! Cleans your house while you rock out!"
Axl takes a step back. Her inventions look… questionable. And her naming sense is even worse.
"No thanks," he says firmly. "I don't need a robotic dust bunny."
The girl doesn't seem to hear him. "But wait, there's more! I also have the Toast-o-Matic 3000! Makes perfect toast every time, guaranteed! Or your money back!"
Axl sighs. He just wants to play his guitar in peace.
"Look, I'm really not interested," he says.
The blonde persists, her sales pitch growing more frantic.
Axl, stubborn as always, sprints away to get away from her.
"Seriously, does she ever stop?" Axl mutters, shaking his head as he puts distance between himself and the blonde inventor and the robotic dust bunny. He doesn't need a Fuzzinator 5000, he needs a break.
He finally spots a decent spot near a shady oak tree. Perfect. He sets up his guitar case, placing it as a donation box. Classy, right?
He tunes his guitar, strumming a few chords to test the sound. Yep, still rocks. He takes a deep breath, channeling his inner rockstar. It's showtime.
Axl launches into a high-energy rendition of one of his original songs. He shreds the guitar, belts out the lyrics, and throws in a few stage moves for good measure. He's pouring his heart and soul into this performance. He is giving it all he's got.
The problem? Nobody seems to care. People stroll by, barely glancing at him. A few give him pitying looks. A businessman talks on his phone, oblivious. A group of teenagers laughs and jokes, completely ignoring his performance.
A few coins clink into his guitar case. Probably out of pity, or to make themselves feel good about supporting "the arts". Whatever. Money is money. Axl plays on, undeterred.
Axl wails on his guitar, lost in the music. He doesn't notice the sky, doesn't see the faint shimmer as something small and golden falls towards him.
[DING].
The sound is barely audible above the music, but something definitely lands in his guitar case. He doesn't pay it any mind, assuming it's just another coin tossed in by some charitable soul.
The music continues.
Axl finishes his set, and the park is now mostly deserted. Finally. He stretches his fingers, takes a swig of water, and surveys his meager earnings. A handful of small coins. Not exactly enough to buy a full meal, but it's something.
He scoops up the coins, separating them into denominations. That's when he sees it. A golden coin, not like the others. It has a strange star design etched on its surface. He frowns. What the heck is this? He's never seen anything like it before. This is definitely not legal tender.
Axl shrugs, pocketing the strange gold coin. Probably some kind of novelty thing. Whatever. He grabs the real change from the donation box—a few crumpled bills and some loose coins—enough for a cheap sandwich from the corner store.
He tears into the sandwich, savoring each bite. Ham and cheese. Nothing fancy, but it hits the spot. He looks around at the empty park, the shadows lengthening as the sun dips below the horizon. It's quiet. Peaceful. He closes his eyes for a moment, and dreams of being a rockstar. The stage lights, the roaring crowd, the music filling the air... He opens his eyes. It's just a dream.
Axl finishes the sandwich, tosses the wrapper in a nearby trash can, and glances at the fountain. The water glistens in the fading light. An idea sparks in his mind. He takes out the strange golden coin, turning it over in his fingers. What if…
He hesitates. It's probably just a useless trinket. But what if it's not? What if it really is something special?
He looks at the coin, then back at the fountain. He makes a decision. He focuses on his dream. The greatest rockstar the world has ever seen. Stadiums filled with screaming fans, hit songs topping the charts, a legacy that will last forever. He grips the coin tightly, closes his eyes, and makes a wish. I wish to be the greatest rockstar.
He walks to the edge of the fountain, winds up, and tosses the coin into the air.
In mid-air, the coin starts to glow. A soft, golden light at first, then brighter, and brighter. Axl has to squint, then close his eyes completely as the light intensifies. Heat washes over him.
He hears a faint [TINK] as the coin hits the floor.
Axl opens his eyes, blinking to adjust to the sudden brightness. He glances at the coin on the ground; he notices that one side has a guitar design. What just happened?
He picks it up, examining it closely. The design is new. He is greatly confused. What was that? Why did the coin glow? He shakes his head. The whole experience was weird. Too weird. He needs to process what is going on, in the comfort of his apartment.
Axl decides to put the coin back into his pocket and head back home.