Rush
It's almost noon, and CelesTeal is busy doing some ridiculous challenge on TikTok—something that involves whipped cream, a bicycle, and way too much confidence.
The adorable blonde with Scandinavian roots is a regular livestreamer, known for her vibrant energy and ever-present smile.
She's built a strong following of 8,000 users and typically sings and dances during her broadcasts. But oddly enough, it wasn't her musical performances that fueled her rise. For the longest time, her follower count lingered at a humble 2,000.
That changed about a month ago, when—on a dare—she began livestreaming quirky challenges.
Viewers could suggest actions, reactions, and next steps in real time. The spontaneous format, paired with CelesTeal's bubbly personality and infectious laughter, turned her streams into irresistible entertainment.
Whizzing downhill on a quiet street, Qlink cam mounted on a selfie rig strapped to her hoodie, CelesTeal rockets forward, trying to see how fast she can go before the whipped cream plastered to her face goes flying. Wind tears at her hair, and she's laughing so hard her cheeks ache, giggles bubbling up in near-uncontrollable bursts.
Her fans are loving it—comments flood the airfeed in real time:
"Rap while riding!"
"Play the harmonica!"
"No brakes!"
She tries to oblige, puffing a note through a toy harmonica between shrieks of laughter, when suddenly—
BAM.
She crashes straight into a nearby bush, flipping midair, limbs flailing, cam still streaming the whole chaotic tumble. The final shot: her lying in a bed of leaves, cream-covered face, nostrils hilariously filled, eyes wide with shock before she breaks into a wild, braying laugh that echoes down the street.
After some playful back-and-forth with fans—jokes, emojis, one viewer begging for a slow-mo replay—CelesTeal, still breathless and sticky, ends the stream with a whipped-cream kiss blown directly at the lens.
Click.
Stream ends.
Off-air now, she exhales, finally taking stock.
Qlink rig? Still intact.
Bicycle—borrowed from her downstairs neighbor? Not a scratch.
She pats down her limbs, checking for damage. A bit of leaf in her hoodie. Whipped cream in her ear.
"Check, check, and check," she mutters.
As she wheels the bike back toward her apartment, her interface flicks over to her dashboard.
"Wow. That was so worth bleeding for," she mutters, sarcasm sharp.
The stream pulled in a pitiful handful of virtual gifts. Six new followers. That's it.
She scowls—then winces. Her left knee's scraped raw, a thin trickle of blood curling down her shin.
"Bleed for the views, Celes. Iconic."
EXT. BRIDGE FRAME – MORNING LIGHT
Perched precariously atop one of the bridge's suspension beams, Clara fastens her custom VR rig into place. The gear is sleek, matte black, bristling with sensors—cutting-edge equipment designed to capture every dizzying detail in full immersive 360°.
Her fingers work fast, checking stability, angle, and link integrity. A soft chime pings as her Qlink syncs with her XtremeTube data aggregator.
"Vanna," she commands, breath fogging slightly, "analyze latest Xtreme uploads. Project success rate for bridge stunt."
The warm female voice in her earpiece responds—calm, precise.
[Vanna]:
"Analysis complete. Based on current trend data and engagement metrics, projected success rate: 42%. Probability of virality: 28%. Margin of error: ±6.3%."
Clara's eyes narrow. She glances down at the river of cars crawling beneath her.
"Those numbers suck. Suggest a way to double them."
[Vanna]:
"Not advisable. Introducing a mid-air flip or suspension drop at this height carries a fatality risk of 61%. Recommending alternate stunts with safer but lower engagement yield."
Clara's jaw tightens.
"Disable safeguards."
A crystalline melody chimes—three cascading notes—signaling that ethical filters have disengaged.
[Vanna]:
"To maximize viral probability, I recommend incorporating a 180° aerial rotation during descent, followed by a timed parachute deployment within 1.7 seconds of freefall. Adjust VR telemetry to include full facial engagement feed."
She breathes in.
"Now that's more like it."
A quick tap sends the updated stunt protocol to her crew.
She calls out, "Carlo, you're good to go."
HIGHER UP ON THE FRAME – CONTINUOUS
Carlo gives a sharp nod. He's 22, wiry-strong, clad in a slate-blue flight suit striped with pulsing LED veins.
His family's food truck—El Malecón 2.0—is parked blocks away, but up here, the only thing on the menu is gravity.
"Madre María, protégeme…" he whispers, making the sign of the cross.
[Carlo POV – BODY CAM]:
Wind screams past his helmet. His suit HUD flares with telemetry—altitude, trajectory, a live countdown. His breath quickens.
The VR cam flickers green. Stream is live.
"Three… two… one—"
He leaps.
For a half-second he floats—weightless, unreal—then drops like a missile.
The city blurs into streaks of concrete and sky. GPS tags flare in his AR: drones, traffic lanes, water taxis.
[DRONE POV]:
Carlo's wingsuit flares open—WHUMP—snapping him horizontal. He slices between two suspension cables, missing them by inches.
Drones track him flawlessly, capturing the stunt from above, behind, below—his LED suit streaking like a falling comet.
[CLARA POV]:
From her perch, she watches it all unfold. Her neural display tracks Carlo's descent: pressure spikes, wind shear climbing.
"Carlo, adjust five degrees left—wind's kicking harder than predicted."
[CARLO]:
"I got it—I got it!"
[BODY CAM POV]:
He banks, but catches a rogue current. Spins—hard. The world flips: sky, water, sky, water—
"Shit—"
Then he stabilizes—just in time. Altitude plummets. The river roars closer.
"PULLING CHUTE—"
With a loud crack, his parachute unfurls. He jerks backward, coasting, decelerating fast. He arcs in toward the barge.
[DRONE + CREW POV]:
He lands in a clean roll across the barge, laughing—adrenaline-drunk, hair wild. One of the riggers throws his arms up.
"¡Lo hiciste, cabrón!"
[CLARA]:
Wide-eyed, breath finally released. Then her Qlink buzzes—thousands of new likes.
"Someone buy that man a sandwich."
The crew cheers.
INT. CELESTEAL'S BEDROOM – LATE MORNING
Streetlights filters through half-shut blinds, striping the cluttered pastel-toned room. Posters of K-pop idols, digital art, and framed snow-covered landscapes line the walls.
Maddie Larsson, aka CelesTeal, 19, lies sprawled on her bed in an oversized hoodie and unicorn-print shorts. One leg hangs off the edge. Her bandaged knee taps lazily in time with the lo-fi beat playing from her speaker orb.
She's munching on Gochujang-flavored Pringles. The spicy dust coats her fingertips like radioactive paprika. A stream replay loops in the air above her—her latest stunt, which barely cracked 300 views.
She sighs.
"Why does everyone love Clara and her bridge dives, but no one cares when I face-plant into a bush?"
A chime. Qlink call—MOM.
MADDIE (taps wrist):
"Accept."
A clean holographic window opens, revealing MOM in her cozy Raleigh kitchen. A pot of creamy fish stew simmers on the stove. Crusty bread cools nearby.
MOM (warmly):
"Maddie, baby, you look like you haven't slept in a week."
MADDIE (grinning weakly):
"Because I haven't? Also, my career is dying."
MOM:
"You have no career, sweetheart. You have whims."
MADDIE:
"Wow. R00d."
MOM (gentler):
"Are you eating real food? Your cheeks look thin. Come visit, just for a sec."
Maddie rolls her eyes, fondly. She taps her Qlink again. The bedroom melts into overlay: she's suddenly standing in her mom's kitchen. The warmth, the glow, the smell of Lohikeitto—even if it's virtual.
She sinks deeper into her bed, eyes closed, smile forming. She crunches down on another Pringle—but in her mind, it's warm, buttery lefse fresh off her mom's skillet.
MADDIE (dreamily):
"Mmm. Fake food never tasted so real."
The call ends with a warm, echoed "I love you."
The silence swells like a held breath. The lo-fi beat drones on, but now it feels hollow, like background noise in someone else's life.
Maddie rolls onto her back, staring at the ceiling. A small crack near the light fixture looks like a sad little lightning bolt.
With a sigh, she flicks her fingers and summons her feed.
TikTok clips scroll past her vision:
Another influencer doing the "Inverted Ramen Challenge."
A couple lip-syncing to a viral breakup audio.
A smug guy explaining crypto hacks while flexing his abs.
Same dances. Same filters. Same manufactured crap.
Her thumb slows.
Even the chaos feels choreographed.
She exhales—deep, flat, unsatisfied.
[BUBBLES, her AI companion, chimes in cheerfully]:
"⚡ New viral on YouTube Xtreme. Would you like to view?"
Maddie blinks.
Her feed pauses mid-scroll, the cheerful offer hanging in the air like a digital itch.
She hesitates—then shrugs.
MADDIE:
"Sure, why not. Hit me."
The air around her pulses gently as the feed shifts. The room dims. A new window opens—one with fire, velocity, and risk practically bleeding through the edges.
The video window expands, hovering above her in crisp resolution.
A voiceover pulses through:
[VO – Clara's voice, adrenaline-laced and confident]:
"Brooklyn Bridge. One shot. No second takes."
A jump-cut montage begins—Carlo perched on the edge, wind tearing at his flight suit, Clara's countdown echoing in the background. Maddie sits up slightly, crumbs falling from her hoodie as the familiar urban skyline rushes into view.
The video is slick, intense. Drone footage swirls around Carlo's wingsuit descent like a hawk circling prey. The camera shakes as he threads the bridge cables—barely missing one.
MADDIE (whispers):
"Holy crap…"
Her fingers twitch, caught between awe and jealousy. The danger, the scale, the clean angles—it's everything her whipped cream bicycle crash wasn't.
Then Carlo spins out mid-air.
The POV view spirals—sky, water, sky again—before he regains control. Maddie gasps, heart thudding in sympathy.
[BUBBLES]:
"Full VR experience available. Tactile mode enabled. Would you like to sync?"
She doesn't even hesitate.
MADDIE:
"Do it. Go full."
The room around her dissolves—not warm and maternal this time, but charged and alive.
A surge ripples through her spine as the Qlink's neural relay taps into her somatosensory system, fusing simulation with sensation. It's not just visual—it's real. Her brain is tricked on a cellular level. Muscles tighten. Skin tingles.
Everything feels…. real.
Her senses recalibrate. Pressure adjusts against her limbs. A tight pull at her back mimics the flight harness. A cool rush of simulated wind slaps her cheeks. Her bed creaks beneath her as her body subtly arcs—reacting instinctively to the sensation of weightlessness.
Suddenly she's falling.
Or at least her nervous system thinks so.
Wind screams past her ears, VR fabric suit wrapping her body in synthetic resistance. Her arms instinctively spread wide. Her stomach drops, a rollercoaster-freefall that tugs at her spine.
Heart rate spikes.
Muscles tense in her thighs.
She gasps out loud, limbs twitching slightly on the bed.
The HUD flashes data—altitude, velocity, biofeedback overlay. She banks left as Carlo. The cables come up fast.
Too fast.
Maddie yelps and kicks one leg out reflexively—thump—her shin knocks her bedside table.
MADDIE (laughing, breathless):
"Oh my gosh—this is nuts!"
She keeps falling—then pulls the chute. The sudden tug in the simulation triggers a full-body jerk. Her arms spread wide, her chest rising as if the harness caught her for real. She lands gently on a simulated rooftop barge. The rush fades, but her heart still races.
The feed cuts. The bedroom returns.
She lies there, wide-eyed, chest rising and falling like she just ran a mile. Sweat prickles at the nape of her neck, her fingers clenching the bedspread as the aftershocks of the simulated fall fade from her nerves.
Her heart still hasn't slowed.
MADDIE (whispers):
"Okay… that was totally insane."
She blinks up at the ceiling, dazed—but not disinterested. Something's shifted.
Sitting up slowly, she wipes her palms on her hoodie and pulls her legs beneath her like a kid about to take notes in class.
MADDIE (to Bubbles):
"Start pulling specs for affordable VR rigs. Full-body tracking, clean audio, low-lag render. Something that doesn't suck."
[BUBBLES]:
"Query received. Compiling top-tier consumer options under $1,200."
She brushes a few crushed Pringle crumbs from her lap, a small, determined smile forming.
No more whipped cream and borrowed bicycles.
No more clownish stunts.
She's seen what's possible. And even if she'll never leap off a bridge herself—
she's ready to fly.
Maddie exhales sharply and shuts off the feed with a flick of her wrist. The room returns—but she still feels there.
Her limbs are heavy, buzzing with aftershock. Her spine tingles. The Qlink's neural overlay lingers—phantom pressure in her chest, ghost-wind in her ears.
She shivers.
It felt real. Too real.
She shifts on the bed and winces. Blood. Her knee—the bandage must've peeled off during the VR dive. A thin red line snakes down her shin, staining her sock.
MADDIE (muttering):
"Seriously?"
She limps to the bathroom, flicking on the low amber light. The mirror catches her reflection: cheeks flushed, hair sticking up wildly, eyes too bright. She looks like someone who just cheated death.
In a way, she did.
She rinses the wound, hissing at the sting, then pats it dry and tapes on a fresh strip of synth-skin. The water runs as she splashes her face, trying to reset.
Back in her room, she moves slower now—folding into her sheets, pulling the blanket to her chin. The neon hum outside her window blurs into a soft glow.
Just as her eyelids begin to droop—
[BUBBLES]:
"New Qlink add-on available. Release version: Dreamscape."
A pause.
"Would you like to install it before sleep?"
Maddie opens one eye.
MADDIE:
"Dreamscape?"
[BUBBLES]:
"A neural-layer sleep interface. Allows immersive dream-state rendering based on subconscious cues and latent emotional signatures. Popular with early adopters."
She frowns slightly.
Neural-layer?
Latent emotional signatures?
She turns onto her side, unsure. Curious. The pulse of the earlier simulation still haunts her skin like static.
[BUBBLES]:
"Would you like to install it before sleep?"
A beat.
"Reminder: installation begins automatically after 24 hours of inactivity unless disabled."
MADDIE:
"Sure."
The lights dim to black.
A faint, almost imperceptible flicker pulses across the corner of her Qlink interface—
something not quite part of the system UI.
Watching.