My name is 4A3. That's also my identity code. The thing scientists use to keep track of me amongst others of my kind. I'm a part of a special group who uses the first two letters  4A. I like it that way. It's sweet and short and gives me a better sense of who I am.

          The lights are bright and blaring, the nights are sweltering and my limbs become numb as I move. My lungs struggle for air, despite the training they've been put under. I smile and try to make it seem as though I enjoy what I'm doing. I do, to some extent. The screams and blurred motion that happens in front of me puts my senses under a coma, and the burning of my body creates something I can focus on, instead of the world.

          Once it's all over, however, I have no choice but to realize that the world is still watching my every move, and that I'm special, someone who isn't the norm. You get used to that feeling of never being alone, which I know for most people would be greatly desired. For our kind, however, we strive for it. We strive for solace and isolation, because our comfort is only ever achieved under that state. It isn't my job to be comfortable, is what I tell myself at the end of the day.

          The world around me is undoubtedly in shambles. Prices, poverty, and hiveminds soar. People live under the roof of Socialism, and if they're unlucky, Communism. They somehow live with it, and they even enjoy it, which is what they've been indoctrinated to do. For those who aren't American, life is much better. We are given a life of no judgement, a life where no matter what we do we'll be coddled. 4A9 tells me this way they're spoiled and will never get anywhere in life, and maybe that's true. For now, it keeps me and my group away from the watchful eyes of the 'activists', in that aspect, anyway. A word that used to have honorable meaning has now become null, a bother to the world. Yet people still search for that honor.

          America is not the country it used to be. Everyone is 'equal' now, yet we couldn't be more seperated. America used to be the ruling power, but now somehow others are allowed to step and stomp all over it's soil, spitting on the white devils, who are the lowest of the low in our world's seperation of classes. I don't know much about America. I've only been alive for a short time, during this time of social destruction and international economic struggle. My job is to worry about my reputation, and I leave these things to the more mature members of our group.

          The world knows me by Tiffany, a member of a new recreated Girls' Generation. I've seen pictures of the original Tiffany, and needless to say it's like looking in a mirror. It's hard to imagine the fact that we're two different people. Our fans don't care, obviously, since we're popular. That is, until white devil activists and people of color activists have come to protest about the extortion and unfair treatment of our kind. Honestly, I'm happy here. Sure, we may be poor, we may not be fed all the time, but our founder and CEO don't make us do any...  favors.  They claim we do, but we honestly don't. Our shows had to stop because of their picket signs and angry screams for equality. Where else can we go? What else can we do? I leave backstage with my fellow members and a few bodyguards. I know I'm safe, but I'm constantly scared of what's going to happen in the future. I don't know how to fend for myself, no one does in this world anymore. We all have safety nets (except for the white devils), and if the activists manage to rip my home from me, my safety net won't be there. My world will be shattered. I can only hope that maybe the other members can survive on their own, compared to my helplessness.

          I enter my dorm (Located away from Seoul in the country, making our trips to the dorm relaxing and long) with my fellow members. It's small for nine people, not to mention shabby, but my home. The paint is peeling, the corners home to dust bunnies, and our ceiling covered in water spots, but it is certainly home. I drop my bag in a corner near the door, throw off my coat, strip as I go to my room, and get dressed in something loose and cool. We don't have air conditioner currently, as it went out a few weeks ago. So now we rely on the cool breezes that slip through the windows we keep open at night. I go back to my living room and see my friends settled on the floor. 4A8 —Yuri— lays sprawled out on our carpeted floor, her legs spread open and arms above her head, her chest heaving as she rests. 4A2 and 4A9 —Jessica and Taeyeon— sit near the television, snacking on dried mangoes and flipping through channels, the American channels we recieve having large black bars over things the South Korean government and United Nations doesn't want us to see. I sit and place my legs under a table that reaches low, allowing us to eat on the ground over a table. 4A6 and 4A7 —Sooyoung and Yoona— are no-where to be seen, probably resting in their rooms. 4A1 —Seohyun— reads a book as she twerks her ears and swipes her tail. 4A5 —Hyoyeon— does dishes and cleans the kitchen, just now bringing in a bowl of rice and some cold kimchi, oi naengguk —a cold cucumber soup—, and more dried mangoes for the rest of us to eat. I turn to Jessica and Taeyeon, now joined by 4A4 —Sunny—. They're on the local news channel.

          The channel explains the recent movements of the activists, which have recently been taking more attention towards the company JYP, which reportedly has actual claims of unfair treatment from their idols. I've met 2PM, for a brief time backstage at a variety show set, and they were arrogant, immature and demanding, and a few members standoffish towards others they feel unworthy. Taeyeon complains as she chews on her dried mango, her words slightly slurred.

          "They're probably just doing it for the handouts they promise afterwords. They don't realize that after they do this they'll have to live in our conditions because those handouts are minimal. Be better off just terminating their contract and finding a real job..." Taeyeon says as she turns to a bowl that Hyoyeon hands her, happily eating her oi naengukk. Jessica shakes her head, watching as activists vandalize the property of JYP's headquarters, and any other building associated with them. Taeyeon knows what she's saying. It's incredibly hard for our kind to find a real job in the real world. We are mostly marketing ploys, advertising products with our attractive faces and and swiping our tails with a slow sensual way, that beckons the consumer. Finding a job at a grocery store, a retail store, or an office is not made for us. If we were normal humans, we would be considered to have autism. Our brains have very basic processing skills, and only under rigorous training do we learn. Companies don't have the time or patience to constantly teach us, and the scientists who make us have no intent on trying to make us any more advanced because they don't want us to be working in those conditions, not because they don't have the resources. Activists don't understand and they never understand. If they really wanted to take a stand, they should towards our scientists. Instead, they believe general and biased media, which tells them that the scientists just simply can't do it.

          We all eat what Hyoyeon has made for us, and my friends go to bed. I rest in the living room alone, everyone else deciding to sleep in the cooler back rooms, where the breeze seems to be attracted to most. I lay here in the humid and feverous air, waiting. I know this is against the rules, but I wait for someone who has recently become very special to me. He comes every night to knock on the window, telling me of his day. We try to exchange kisses and we lean on each others foreheads, but there is that unmovable barrier, the screen. I get that soft little pattering on our window screen, and I get up in a hurry, gathering myself and meeting him. His tag is 6B5, and his species is the panther. He comes from the same company as me, and his human name is Kai, who belongs to the group EXO. They've become far more popular than us, both internationally and in our home country, the group capturing pre-adolescent girls' hearts and shaking the emotions of frigid young women. Kai has a certain charm, able to attract any woman he wanted, yet he picked me. Maybe because we're the same kind, we experience the same emotions. He's very smart compared to a lot of us, able to compute and learn far beyond what was expected of him. He's a miracle child, a true genius amongst our kind. I love him, true love, and I know he loves me. We exchange sweet words and place our hands and fingertips against one another from each side of the screen, and we look into each others eyes lovingly. He tells me how beautiful I am, how lovely I am that night, how the moonlight reflects off my cheeks with a wonderful glow. He keeps going until I fall asleep near him, pretending his arms are around me.

          Miles away, activists sneak into the headquarters to vandalize SM entertainment headquarters, destroying and taking items they use to practice, and destroying the sound recording rooms, all the technology they use, and deleting files of future songs and albums.

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These do not reflect the real-life people and are merely fictional and circumstances and situations. Any relation to real-life people or scenarios are completely coincidental.

I'm happy for this chapter. The next one won't come as soon. Love sick teenagers are horribly easy to write.