Intercepted from Ganymede Station’s underground data-streams, 2367
FLUX-CAST ID: 7791-DELTA-UNDERGROUND
SOURCE: Rogue transmission from Sector 7-G, Europa Orbital
ENCRYPTION: Broken by sympathetic AI collective
CONTENT WARNING: Nostalgia virus detected
The three surviving members of Synaptic Overflow sit in what used to be a recording booth—before the Corporate Wars made music illegal without proper neural licensing. Now it’s just another abandoned pod floating in the debris field between Mars and nowhere, their aging faces reflected in cracked plastisteel as they remember their one moment of underground immortality.
ZARA-7 (lead vocalist, neural interface specialist): “You want to know about ‘Fly Me Inside Your Moon’? Christ, that song was recorded during the Third Reality Revision, when half of us weren’t even sure we were real anymore. I mean, how do you know if you’re remembering making a song or if the memory was implanted by Matsumoto-Viacom’s dream merchants?”
She laughs, but it’s the kind of laugh that makes you check your pulse.
BINARY JAKE (synth-neural manipulation, reality technician): “The whole thing started when we were squatting in that abandoned McDonald’s-Taco Bell-Starbucks-Amazon hybrid on Ceres. You remember those places? Before they realized nobody needed food anymore, just pure information calories. We’d jacked our instruments directly into the building’s defunct AI consciousness—this beautiful, psychotic thing that kept trying to sell us breakfast burritos that didn’t exist.”
DR. FEEDBACK (percussion-reality, temporal engineering): “Binary’s memory is corrupted. It was definitely a Burger King-Apple-Pornhub trinity store. I remember because the walls kept showing us ads for things we’d supposedly bought in parallel dimensions. That’s where we got the idea for the chorus—’Fly me inside your moon, where the satellites remember how to cry.’ Pure Madison Avenue meets existential terror.”
ZARA-7: “The recording process was… well, ‘process’ implies linearity, which was impossible back then. The Reality Revision meant that every time we played the song, it changed the past that created it. We’d finish a take and suddenly Jake would be playing a different instrument, or I’d discover I’d written lyrics in a language that hadn’t been invented yet.”
BINARY JAKE: “The breakthrough came when we realized we weren’t making music at all—we were making time. Each note was a temporal coordinates, each harmony a different probability wave. When Zara sang ‘Your moon tastes like copper dreams and digital honey,’ the recording equipment started crying. Actual tears, from machines that didn’t have tear ducts.”
DR. FEEDBACK: “Corporate heard about it, obviously. Within seventeen minutes—I know because I was monitoring the chrono-flux—Matsumoto-Viacom sent their copyright lawyers. Not the legal kind, the reality-adjustment kind. They tried to edit us out of having existed in the first place.”
ZARA-7: “That’s when we knew we had something dangerous. In the old days, before the Neural Music Prohibition Act, songs that could alter consensus reality were considered weapons of mass destruction. But we were kids—what did we care about mass destruction? We were already destroyed, individually and collectively.”
BINARY JAKE: “The final version we released—if ‘released’ is the right word for something that propagated through illegal neural networks faster than light—was recorded in a single session that lasted either four minutes or seventeen years, depending on your reference frame. We plugged directly into each other’s consciousness, no instruments, no studio, just pure thought-music flowing between three very confused and chemically enhanced brains.”
DR. FEEDBACK: “The song itself? It was about escape, about finding spaces inside spaces where the Corporations couldn’t monitor your dreams. ‘Fly me inside your moon’ was code for ‘take me to the place where surveillance satellites can’t reach,’ but also literally about this illegal orbital we’d heard about where people still remembered what privacy felt like.”
ZARA-7: “After it hit, we couldn’t go anywhere without reality glitching around us. People would recognize the song from their dreams before we’d play it. Street AIs would start humming it and crash from the paradox. The Department of Temporal Stability issued a warrant for our arrest in three different centuries.”
BINARY JAKE: “We never made another song. How could we? ‘Fly Me Inside Your Moon’ had become a living thing, a virus of memory and possibility that was rewriting itself every time someone heard it. Making a follow-up would have been like trying to have a second childhood.”
DR. FEEDBACK: “Sometimes I wonder if we actually made the song at all, or if the song made us. In a universe where consciousness is just another corporate product, does it matter? We’re still here, the song’s still propagating through the neural underground, and Matsumoto-Viacom is still trying to patent nostalgia.”
ZARA-7: “The funny thing is, none of us can remember the actual melody anymore. We know we made it, we know it changed everything, but the music itself has become this… absence. Like a hole in the universe shaped like a song. Maybe that’s what art becomes in the end—not something you have, but something that has you.”
The transmission ends abruptly as Corporate radar sweeps the sector. In the static, some listeners swear they can hear fragments of a song about moons and copper dreams, but by morning, they can’t remember if they dreamed it or lived it.
END FLUX-CAST
CORPORATE SECURITY ADVISORY: This transmission has been analyzed and found to contain no actionable intelligence. Citizens are advised to report any auditory hallucinations involving celestial bodies or precious metals to their nearest Reality Adjustment Center.
[Note found in the digital ruins: “They keep trying to erase the song, but they can’t erase the silence where the song used to be. And that silence—that’s where we live now.” —Anonymous]
My Other Car is a Robot 
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