Bimbo Pop Princess

Prologue - Candy Records

The auditorium was filled to the brim. In the modest country town, high-profile entertainment was a rare occurrence. Knowing this, when the local high school got to host a sponsored singing competition, the locals didn't stop to ponder whether they really were interested in watching teenagers make fools of themselves.

Indeed, most of the townsfolk had never heard of this "Candy Records" label, and generally expected nothing more from the event than an utterly tacky marketing ploy. Perhaps the company would show off one of their artists after a string of half-assed performances by the local kids. Perhaps they would be content with just selling merchandise. Not of it really mattered to the townspeople, as long as they got to do something with their evening other than going to the goddamn dart club or whatever.

Of course, not all of the people present were just desperate to shake things up. Some were genuinely here to sing or listen to the aspiring artists. And since Candy Records allowed contestants until age 25, there was at least a reasonable chance that some of them actually knew their stuff. Rock bands, metal bands, some solo singers, the town had its share of competent, starry-eyed musicians seeing this as their opportunity to take off. But this story isn't about them. It is about the quiet, lanky brunette sitting in the back rows, fiddling away with her Smartphone as one of teenage rock bands take the scene.

"Last ones before I'm up." She types to her bedridden best friend. "I really do hope you appreciate this."

"Thx thx thx Brooke!" Comes the reply. "I swear Ill make it up 2 you!"

"If your song really makes it, just make sure it's interpreted by someone who actually likes singing."

"Oh, cmon gal! You know you have a great singing voice."

"Whatever."

Brooke Wendell doesn't really care for her voice, singing or otherwise. It was a bit nasal ; Nothing to be called a straight speech impediment, but enough to make her stand out. Sure, at least when she was singing she sounded less like a trumpet. Not enough of an incentive to start socializing, if you ask her.

Calling Brooke a nerd would no doubt be excessive. She is reserved and technologically inclined, but also a very clean-cut and serious young woman. With a smooth, refined short hairstyle, plain androgynous clothes and utter lack of makeup, she was readily identifiable as an all-business kind of gal. And indeed, she was working freelance in graphic design. Always looking at a screen, she had neither the taste nor the patience for face to face interaction.

Still, she had made a promise to her childhood friend Elisa, and she'll be damned if she ever gets back on her word. As soon as the rock band is done, Brooke sighs, gets up and walks to the stage. The townspeople are understandably surprised to see her there - she is known for her distant demeanor. She quickly moves to reassure them.

"I'm just here to play the song Elisa Sloane wrote. She'd done it herself, but she came down with the flu just two days ago. Lisa loves this song and really wanted to get it out there. Please give her all the credit."

Without further ado, Brooke takes the mic as Elisa's guitar tune recording plays in the background. The gaunt brunette closes her eyes to drown out the crowd as she begins to sing. She would really rather be somewhere else, but for her friend, she's ready to give it her all. She delivers the poetic, romantic verse with a rare heartfelt quality to her voice.

It doesn't send the audience into incredulous awe. It isn't the accidental discovery of the world's best singer. But it is a surprisingly touching performance of a lovingly crafted song by a young, flat young woman known as icy around town. People nod in acknowledgment of miss Sloane's composer skills, and boys make the resolution to talk to that Brooke girl a bit more. But it doesn't light a fire under anyone's butt, and that's just how Brooke likes it. She finishes, and bow as the mandatory applause comes. The graphics designer walks off the stage and texts her friend.

"There. All done. Crowd liked it okay."

"Aw, thx Brookie, luv ya!"

"No problem. I hope those Candy Records guys get interested."

"I hope too!"

"Get well soon, alright?"

Uninteresting in staying there a moment longer, Brooke swings open the auditorium's doors and goes out. She has a freelance business to take care of. But just as she strides through the lobby, checking her professional email box, a man's voice calls her.

"Miss Wendell? Could I have a moment, please?"

Brooke raised her eyes and turned around, annoyed and ready to explain again she was just here to do her friend a solid. She was given pause, however, when he saw the thirty-something, handsome man in a sharp suit complete with a Candy Records badge. He was one of the sponsors...She had to at least try to get him to sign Elisa.

"Sure."

"Miss Wendell", the man began by saying, "My name is Ian Horne, Candy Records' head of A&R department. I realize you're acting as a proxy here, and I assure you I'd be excited to get in talks with your friend once she gets better. But your voice is exactly what Candy Records has been looking after for months."

"What, really?" Drably replied Brooke, incredulous. "I'm not a singer and I'm not looking to be. It's Elisa you're looking f..."

"Yes, yes, I understand!" He answered with the utmost diplomacy. "And I know this is a bit cavalier as far as business offers go, but before you cut me off, understand we are talking about an at least six-figure yearly salary here."

The young graphics designer might have been cautious and in active dislike of all public affairs, but money could also make her nod her head at inappropriate times. Dollar signs would have popped out of her eyes right then and there had it been possible.

"I'm listening."

"Let's go into a more private location first. Coffee?"

"Tea, thanks."

-------

Fifteen minutes later, another Candy Records' executive walks back toward the high school auditorium, a bag of countryside fast food under his arms. He got bored of the pointless "contest" right about the time yet another inexperienced rock band showed up, and left his colleague Ian deal with the small town folk. Suddenly, his phone rings. It was Ian.

"Yeah, what's up?"

"Rick, my man, we got her! We friggin' got her!"

"What? The mother of all boredom?"

"No, you idiot, the Voice! Just when you left, this flat and boring girl comes in and sings some poetic stuff, and she sounds exactly -and I mean exactly- like her! Give her a cartoony redneck accent and she's fucking Trixie Smiles!"

"You're kidding. We got sent across the country looking for a one in a million shot and we fucking hit it?! Where is she?"

"Sleeping in the diner across the street. Sure glad we got this sleight of hand course...We have to get her to HQ, fast!"

"Coming right away, Ian-o!

Rick O'Neill cannot believe his and his colleague's luck. He was so convinced Candy Records' already loony bosses had finally gone the useless kind of crazy, and yet, after just a few months of searching, they found someone who sounded exactly like the completely fake Internet starlet the "record label" has created. Indeed, Candy Records had never dealt with actual artists - they were part of a shadowy consortium exploring the mechanics of popularity. They created real-sounding artificial voices, gave them some characterization, and threw them at YouTube to see what sticks.

Their most successful fake singer by far was Trixie Smiles, a bubbly Southern cutie with a major case of the chatterboxes. She was a real airhead, but her down-to-earth, modest village gal image and her open-hearted rants had managed to melt the heart of many an internet cynic. She simply appeared too naive and earnest to be fake. The fact that she was too bashful to readily post pictures of herself apparently helped fuel the interest as well. Quickly, her popularity exploded. Candy Records Frankensteined together blurry photoshops of her as a modestly clothed, really busty redhead, but that soon proved insufficient. The fake label understood they had to make her real.

They had the means to do so - the consortium they were a part of dabbled in body modification, nanotechnology and mind control. Taking one girl as turning her into Trixie Smiles was a piece of cake for them. The only problem was that the first thing people knew about her was her voice...And all their body mod technology couldn't manipulate something as complex as the human voice.

Which was why they had taken to hunt down the one-in a million girl with the exact same voice as their fictional Southern bimbo. The only suitable candidate for transformation.

And now, they had found her. The two nefarious record label employees discretely spirited the knocked-out Brooke Wendell away, driving her toward Candy Records' headquarters, and toward her new life.

---------

Part 1 - Brooke Crumbles

The young designer did not consider this as a good development.

Sure, she probably should have been cautious about the handsome record label representative. But no matter how brutal your interpretation of karma, being drugged and held captive remains a pretty rough consequence for gullibility. Besides, being imprisoned was only the start of Brooke's worries.

When she woke up, it wasn't the nausea that most freaked her out. Neither was it the tingling sensation all over her skin. No, it was the cold feeling on her head. With a touch, she realized her sleek black hair was gone. She had been shaved, and worse, she could feel a scar. In that moment, a horrible feeling of dread had squeezed her heart. She wasn't just a captive, but a guinea pig. Those bastards had done something to her brain.

Determined to get the hell out of here, she then got off the bed and looked around. She was in a simple bedroom with a bed, a desk complete with a computer, and a wardrobe. Two doors promised the escape Brooke ardently desired, but the first one led to a small bathroom, and the second refused to budge.

And so here she stood, fairly confident her life had taken one of the worst turns possible. And for what? No way that "voice" business Ian Horne fed her was the real reason.

"Dammit."

Even in such a crisis, the young woman remained taciturn. It didn't matter if she was alone or not ; it was simply her nature. Similarly, as her left hand nervously touched her shaved scalp, her right hand went to her smartphone in her pocket. It was only then that she realized she was naked.

"Oh, God no."

Brooke began to look around frantically. There was clothing in the wardrobe, but she could not care less about that. That smartphone was her life. She could lose her hair, freedom or clothes...but she couldn't lose that damn phone. She looked under the bed, in all the clothes' pockets, even behind the wardrobe...But there was nothing. She was disconnected.

She turned to the computer. It was not her precious phone, but it was a start. It was probably a special computer, monitored by her captors...hell, there was no keyboard to be found, only a mouse and...a microphone? Weird. But it was all she had at the moment, so she booted it up and nervously waited for some sweet technology. But instead of a familiar desktop screen, she was treated to a still image.

It was a drawing of some redheaded trollop with huge breasts. She seemed vaguely familiar to Brooke, but not enough for her to care. Probably just some celebrity chick floating around the web. The designer grabbed the mouse and clicked, hoping to bring up the real desktop. Instead, she was treated to a pop-up window that read thusly :

"Hi Trixie! I know your pretty little head is bad with computers, but don't worry, this one is real simple and voice-activated. You'll be able to talk to me during the duration of your therapy. Say "yes" if you understand."

Trixie?

"The...hell?"

There was a loud buzz. Wrong answer.

"Oh, looks like your depression is a bit heavier than anticipated. I'll get back to you in an hour. You be a good girl now, Trixie. Signed, your manager."

----

Ian had fully expected Miss Wendell to respond this way. It didn't matter ; Her transformation was, he had been assured, all but certain. The folks in the other branches of Candy Record's mother company had pumped her full of nanites programmed to transform her body in a few days. Ian Horne himself was tasked with reshaping her mind, but they had laid the groundwork by implanting her with a very special microchip. He didn't know all the details, but basically, it was going to cloud her mind and weaken her resolve.

With a large smile of his face, the lucky talent discoverer, now Trixie's manager, clicked on the playlist he had prepared for his charge. It was high time for phase one to begin.

----

And so, in the prison cell dressed up as a room, a friendly, folksy tune started playing. Not five seconds have passed that a cheerful, slightly nosy voice began blabbering.

"Howdy y'all! Trixie here! Boy, maaan, it sure is amazing to have y'all list'ning to me over that Internet thiiing! I'm so exciiteeeed! Mah manager says I'll soon get ta meet y'all in person but oh well, listen to me running mah mouth all over the place again. Gawd I'm such a ditz! So, yeah, I best get to the singin'. Ahem..."

Brooke cringed over this torrent of pure bubbliness, and would have dismissed the girl entirely as a floozy she'd never, ever listen to...if it wasn't for one supremely creepy element.

"She...She's got my voice."

No question about it. That Trixie chick had Brooke's voice, only with a flighty tone and southern accent. It's like she had just listened to herself play a idiot. It was, simply, freaky.

"Bastards made me sing when I was out cold. Somehow."

And with this, as her own voice engaged in a saccharine pop song, Brooke's indignation now had something to focus on. She still wasn't sure what exactly they had done to her brain, but she now had a solid grasp on Candy Record's goal. They wanted her to believe she was this "Trixie".

But how? And more importantly, why? That ditz was nothing like her. If she was the one drawn in the computer's backdrop, and Brooke had no reason to doubt it, she was at least several letters bigger in cup size. Brooke didn't care if she had just the right voice, trying to turn her into this bimbo made no sense. There were plenty of hillbilly girls willing to sell out and adopt a fake personality just to have a shot at fame. So why her?!

"We are happy folks in a happy world

Problems are just here to make tha sun shine

My sis always say yer a storm o'trouble

But ya sure as heck make everything fine!"

And how did they get her to sound so happy anyway? Maybe that was what the brain surgery was about. Playing her like a puppet, then showing the results to her in hopes of messing with her head. Brooke knew one thing, though - she didn't want to hear that song for one moment longer. She bolted off to the bathroom, and took a shower to drown out the music.

----

Sadly, the water stopped by itself after twenty minutes. Brooke felt refreshed, but her alter ego's singing was still worming its way inside her head. So, after quickly drying herself up, she walked to the computer and talked into the microphone.

"Whoever you are, stop that damn music."

Brooke didn't have to wait long before the answer came.

"Trixie, you are sick. You're depressed. Listening to your own music is good for you, it will give you confidence for your first steps into stardom. The music will only stop playing when you talk to me, so I can make sure you're making progress."

The young lanky woman stepped away from the computer screen and the microphone. Talking. This had to be a trap. The first thing about her character was quietness, and the first thing about Trixie's character was being an uncontrollable chatterbox. The plan was all too clear - listen to the music and let it drill its way into your head, or talk...and actively become more like Trixie. Brooke suddenly had the mental image of seeing her blabber away into the microphone, and felt sick. That's what they wanted her to be. A stranger to herself.

So she opted for door number three - bury herself under the blanket, cover her ears, and try to remember her true self as best she could, locking out Candy Records' attempts to change it.

---

Hours passed. Still hunkered down under the blanket, Brooke was trying to focus. Conjuring forth memories was easy enough in the beginning. She recalled promising Elisa she would help her out. Poor Elisa...Even now, Brooke couldn't bring herself to blame her. How could she have known, after all? The concert, then that Horne bastard tampering with her tea. She could also remember the week leading to that fateful day, but past that...nothing came.

Mere flashes, stills from long hours she spent on Photoshop, naked in her studio. But nothing significant...Not even what she ate or listened to. Worse, trying to recall further memories was starting to hurt. The more she focused, the sharper the headache grew.

The brain surgery. Candy Records, Brooke realized, had messed with her memory. Maybe put an inhibitor chip or whatever. She knew they had tampered with the very seat of her conscience, but now she felt the effect, the reality of it...And it was so, so much worse.

She wanted to go to the computer and lash out at the assholes on the other side, monitoring her ordeal. Or even try to negotiate a release...But she knew it would be to no avail. They were trying to transform her into a country bumbpkin airhead, for God's sake. What good would talking to them do? Nothing. It would only serve to make her more like Trixie.

Still, she had to distract herself from that damn music. Very much against her whole wishes, Brooke found out she started to despise her alter ego's singing less and less. It was catchy and cheery...And technically, she wasn't half bad a singer. She sure wasn't using any auto-tune. It was fair, but that didn't matter. She couldn't afford to let herself warm up to the identity they wanted her to adopt. And thanks to the damn headache, her first plan for a distraction wasn't working anymore. So she decided to get dressed, as little a diversion as this was.

She regretted it pretty much immediately. While the clothes were fairly normal in style, if a bit low-budget and frayed, every single top she had been provided with were ill-fitting. Specifically, they were skintight...for someone with absurdly sexy mensurations. Someone exactly like Trixie. At first, she was simply disgusted. But soon, the realization hit.

"Oh no. No. No. No."

Brooke went back to the bathroom, this time to check herself in the mirror, and what she saw chilled her to the bone.

On her shaved scalp, hair was just beginning to grow back...But it wasn't her natural raven color. It was fiery red. Light freckles had appeared across the bridge of her nose...And her almost non-existent breasts were now clearly noticeable, if still very modest.

The designer panted heavily, her hands clawing at her face. Her captors were, God knew how, altering her body. She was becoming a busty redhead. SHE WAS PHYSICALLY BECOMING TRIXIE.

That ghastly fact resonated in her head for a while, thunderous as an avalanche, echoing louder and louder each time.

"Oh my gawd, no...EEEP!"

Had she just said "gawd"?

All pretense of self-control left poor Brooke. Her body was changing, her memories were locked away from her...And constantly hearing her own voice talking like a brain-dead bumpkin and singing like the happiest moron in the world was getting to her. She was only a few hours into the procedure, and she was already starting to take on the accent. Whatever was in her brain made her absorb her alter ego's voice like a sponge. And Brooke letting her hog all the available time sure as heck...sure as hell wasn't helping.