Not quite a headliner (Indian, mid 20s, UK)

The whirring slowed.

Joana’s heart pounded in rhythm with the RAC’s spinning reels. One by one, they clicked into place, glowing labels blinking as they locked:

Age: 23
Occupation: DJ
Location: London, UK
Social Context: Rising local scene, small following
Appearance: Indian descent, short, round-faced, plain dresser
Gender Identity: Cis Female

Joana blinked. The rush of anticipation dipped - not plummeted, but certainly faltered.

“Hmm,” she murmured aloud, fingers resting on the console. “Not what I pictured for ‘trance DJ in London’.”

Still, her curiosity pushed her forward. With a breathless smile, she pressed Engage.

The RAC pulsed once. Then, the world tilted.

⸻

The air smelled like stale incense, patchouli oil, and something metallic.

Joana’s eyes fluttered open.

A tiny flat surrounded her - its walls painted an uninspired off-white, dotted with thumbtack holes and peeling band posters. Faded pink LED strips limped along the corners of the ceiling. There was the soft buzz of traffic outside the window and the low hum of a laptop fan.

She was sitting on a bed - or rather, a mattress on the floor - legs crossed, oversized hoodie swallowed around her. The sleeves were too long, bunching at her wrists. Her hair - thick, black, parted messily in the middle - clung to one cheek.

A mirror leaned against the far wall. She looked.

“Oh,” Joana breathed, her voice now colored by a soft London accent.

The girl in the mirror was… exceedingly average. Indian features softened by a thick layer baby fat. Round cheeks, no makeup. A lazy bun that screamed low-effort late nights. Her hoodie bore a faded logo for some Berlin warehouse label, and the joggers she wore weren’t flattering - they were functional.

Joana tilted her head. This wasn’t the glamorous, seductive DJ she’d conjured in her imagination. No sweat-slicked dancers or neon-drenched stages. Just this girl - frumpy, clearly talented if the Ableton session on the laptop meant anything, but not particularly electric.

She stood slowly, hoodie slipping off one shoulder. Her body felt smaller, a little doughy in the middle. Most disappointingly though, she had little to no curves, a far cry from her earlier form. She shuffled to the mirror, bare feet cold on the wood floor.

“Okay,” she said to the reflection. “Not the vibe I expected.”

On the tiny desk was a battered MIDI controller, headphones resting like a crown. A name was taped in Sharpie across the laptop’s lid:

RAAZ

Joana touched the name lightly.

“Secrets,” she murmured, translating it aloud. A stage name. A mystery. A persona.

Her gaze flicked downward - and that’s when she saw it.

The RAC. Still here!

It sat on the floor beside the futon, now disguised as a cheap digital music sampler — its interface glowing faintly in standby mode, its incongruous presence hidden in plain sight.

Joana smiled slowly. “So you came with me,” she whispered.

Of course it had. It was synced to her new reality now in these Quantum Leap-style jumps she envisioned. Wherever she went, however reality spun around her, the RAC would follow like a loyal, silent familiar.

She stood and padded barefoot to the mirror, brushing hair from her face. Her reflection wasn’t disappointing, exactly. Just… unpolished. This woman - RAAZ, apparently - wasn’t fully realized. Not yet.

But that could change.

A flick of eyeliner. A better wardrobe. A new kind of energy. Confidence was a frequency - and Joana had the means to tune it.

Her hand rested on the glowing sampler.