Chapter Text
Balmera Times — 06/26 - 10:49 AM By Shay B
ONGOING: Fan rivalry between supporters of international pop sensations Lance McClain and Keith Kogane continues to escalate online and in public spaces.
What began as online speculation regarding tension between the two artists has developed into an increasingly hostile divide between fanbases, with incidents now being reported across multiple tour locations.
On Saturday, 26th June at approximately 4:06 AM, a confrontation occurred between two groups of fans outside a venue following the 49th show of the NEPTUNE Tour by McClain.
In what has become an ongoing and highly publicised rivalry between fanbases, supporters of Lance McClain and Keith Kogane have once again drawn attention following a series of incidents across multiple tour dates.
Online discourse surrounding both artists has intensified over the past several months, with hashtags relating to McClain and Kogane frequently trending in parallel during major performances, interviews, and award appearances.
Despite representatives for both artists repeatedly dismissing any personal connection beyond professional overlap within the music industry, fan interpretation of their interactions continues to drive engagement across social media platforms.
A number of widely circulated clips from joint industry events have contributed to ongoing speculation, with viewers highlighting perceived “tension,” “annoyance,” and “unscripted reactions” between the two performers.
As of now, 8 out of the 30 individuals involved in the confrontation are injured, 2 of them suffering from severe rib injuries and 6 others left with severe injuries on various parts of their bodies.
Official statements are yet to be put out by either McClain and Kogane.
—
487 unread notifications.
19 missed calls.
#LanceMcClain was trending at number one before he’d even opened his eyes.
—
Lance had barely finished brushing his teeth before his phone started violently vibrating across the bathroom counter.
“Pidgeon”
“Baker Boy (Hunk)”
Those ones weren’t important enough to pick up, so he ignored them. He assumed they were something to do with congratulations for his 49th show, which he didn’t think much of. That was until he saw a specific name pop up on his screen.
“Shiro The Hero”
He let it ring once.
Twice.
Three times.
If his manager was calling before eleven in the morning after a concert, something had gone catastrophically wrong.
He let it ring a fourth time before it stopped.
A second later, a message appeared.
Office. Now.
Well.
That couldn’t be good, he thought to himself, slipping into the first thing that he could grab to cover up the fact that he was still wearing yesterday’s shirt.
No breakfast.
No shower.
Just fresh, hot coffee that had been left on his bedside table, a blue robe and a pair of blue slides.
Lance walked through the halls of the Atlas Entertainment building, coffee balanced in one hand and his phone in the other. Every muscle in his body ached from the previous night’s concert. Three hours on stage under blinding lights had left him drenched in sweat, running almost entirely on adrenaline.
Now that the adrenaline had worn off, all he wanted was a shower and another six hours of sleep.
The concert hadn’t gone bad at all. No fires. No falling off of stage. He didn’t accidentally break a button on his camp collar shirt. Unless he did.
Lance abruptly stopped in the middle of the hallway.
“…No.”
He pulled his robe open just enough to inspect his shirt in the reflection of the nearest window.
Every button was still attached.
He exhaled.
Crisis averted.
Phew.
Lance continued to walk, taking a sip of his coffee. What could have gone wrong? Was it his charming smile? Or maybe his handsomeness?
He was about to find out, pushing the door to Shiro’s office open. Shiro was sat at his desk, viewing something on his computer screen. From the reflection of his glasses, it looked like a news article. A very long news article.
Somewhere between walking through the doorway and staring blankly at the article reflecting in Shiro’s glasses, Lance’s brain had checked out.
“Lance?”
“…Huh?”
“Sit.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Shiro wasn’t intimidating.
He was the kind of manager who reminded people to eat lunch, bought birthday cakes for the staff and apologised when he had to schedule meetings before noon.
Which somehow made the pit in Lance’s stomach even worse. Nevertheless, he moved to sit down on one of the two seats across from Shiro, letting his feet rest on the other as he suppressed a yawn.
Lance didn’t have a chance to speak. “I’ve got a bone to pick with you, Mr McClain.”
Lance looked at Shiro with confusion, raising an eyebrow as he set his coffee down.
“A bone to pick? With Me? Me?! Surely you’ve got the wrong McClain.” Lance was about to start arguing his case against Shiro.
Shiro didn’t smile. That was the first red flag.
He turned his monitor slightly, to which Lance leaned over the desk to see it properly, squinting as he read the title.
A news article.
Long.
Very long.
“Do you want to explain this to me?”
“…Oh.” Lance looked as if he had been slapped in the face. “Oh!”
Shiro exhaled slowly. “Yes. ‘Oh.’”
Lance scanned the article, scrolling further down, expression tightening as he recognised the headline format, then the incident report, then—
“…There’s no way.”
“There is a way,” Shiro said. “Because it happened.”
Lance swallowed. “Okay but—fans do dumb stuff all the time, right? This isn’t—this isn’t on me.”
Shiro finally looked at him.
“Lance,” he said carefully, “your comment from last night is currently being replayed in every clip I’ve seen this morning.”
—
Friday, 25th June — 9:30 PM, San Francisco
It was just a comment. It couldn’t be that bad.
The bass hit first.
Not music. But impact. Something that rattled through the floorboards of the arena and up through the soles of Lance’s boots, like the entire building had decided to pulse in time with his heartbeat.
The lights were too bright. They always were. White-hot strobes slicing through the dark like broken stars, catching sweat in the air and turning it into glitter.
He should’ve been thinking about the next song.
He wasn’t.
There was a warmth in his chest that wasn’t just adrenaline.
Not quite.
The kind of warmth that came from the two drinks someone had handed him backstage “for the nerves,” even though he didn’t get nervous. Not usually. Just… aware. Sharper at the edges. A little too loose in the middle.
“SAN FRANCISCO!” he shouted into the mic, and the crowd screamed it back so loudly it felt like it physically hit him.
He grinned anyway.
Of course he did.
That was the job.
The band kicked in behind him, and he moved without thinking—too practiced to miss a beat, even when his thoughts were drifting slightly out of alignment with his mouth.
The screens behind him flashed his face, then cut to crowd shots, then to fast edits of him spinning across the stage.
Somewhere in the noise, he caught himself laughing at nothing in particular.
Maybe it was the energy.
Maybe it was the drinks.
Maybe it was the way the audience screamed like they already knew exactly what version of him they were supposed to believe in.
“Alright,” Lance said into the mic, breathless between songs, wiping sweat from his jaw with the back of his hand. “Wow. You guys are startin’ off loud tonight.”
The crowd screamed louder.
He pointed at them.
“Yeah, I said it. Don’t act like it’s not true.”
More screaming.
God, he loved them.
He really did.
The lights shifted again—blue this time, deep ocean tones washing over the stage as the next track started building. He could feel the vibration in his ribs before the drop even hit.
He turned slightly, pacing the edge of the stage, soaking it in.
“Okay,” he said, softer now, like he was letting them in on something. “This next one… this one’s for the people who pretend they’re chill but are actually, like, deeply not chill.”
The crowd erupted.
He laughed again.
Too easy.
Too loud.
Too much everything.
And somewhere in the noise, between the bass and the lights and the thousands of voices screaming his name, Lance McClain leaned into the microphone and said something he didn’t think about for more than half a second—
Something that would later get clipped, replayed, slowed down, argued over, and turned into a problem he wouldn’t understand until the morning.
But in that moment?
It just felt like another joke.
Another beat in the song.
Another thing the crowd would forget by sunrise.
—
11:02 AM — Shiro’s Temporary Office
The crowd continued to echo through Lance’s ears. He was, however, very interested in the wallpaper of Shiro’s Temporary Office™.
Plain white. So mesmerising.
“You have a lovely… ceiling, Shiro. What brand is it?”
Shiro sent Lance a disapproving glare. He wouldn’t typically get annoyed at someone, but this was different. This was Lance’s entire career on the line.
“Lance. Don’t avoid the subject.”
Lance’s expression dropped. In Shiro’s office, there was no music. Only silence. Tense, deafening silence.
Shiro clicked his mouse once, opening up another news article.
ONGOING: Public backlash intensifies as McClain–Kogane rivalry narrative spreads
“The entire world thinks that you and Keith hate each other,” Shiro began, voice tight but controlled. “Or that you hate him. I don’t know. The narrative is shifting every five minutes and I haven’t had time to—”
He stopped himself, exhaling slowly through his nose.
“This isn’t about fan theories anymore.”
Lance blinked.
“…It’s not?”
Shiro turned the screen slightly toward him.
On it, there were clips. Headlines. Comments.
All repeating the same sentence in different formats, like a chorus that had lost its meaning.
Lance’s own voice, frozen mid-smile.
Lance couldn’t believe his own eyes.
“…That’s it?”
Shiro didn’t answer right away.
“That’s what started it?” Lance tried again, incredulous. “That’s—people got hurt over that?”
Shiro’s expression didn’t change.
“Lance,” Shiro said more quietly, “people got hospitalised because of that clip.”
Lance wasn’t going to worry too much. He could brush it off with a simple apology on Instagram. Shiro, however, wasn’t going to let it go.
”And that’s not all of it.”
Shiro changed tabs on his monitor, showing Lance an Instagram page that, surprisingly, wasn’t his. 65 million followers. 405 posts.
Keith Kogane’s official account stared back at them.
Lances eyes scanned the page, before quickly taking the mouse from Shiro’s hand and turning the monitor completely towards him.
His most recent post? Romelle Levana. A fashion icon. The Princess of Fashion.
And it wasn’t just one picture. It was a slideshow. 15 pictures. All of Keith and Romelle, sometimes Allura.
Wait. Allura?
His celebrity crush, Princess of Pop, Allura Altea? There was no way! Allura was like a goddess. And seeing not only her but also Romelle with Keith? It was like seeing two swans with a pigeon!
No offence to Pidge, obviously, but still!
Lance was quick to refresh the page, wanting to confirm his worst nightmare, but his attention was quickly turned towards a new post that had popped up on Keith’s account. 15 seconds ago.
Oh shit.
“Oh, shit!”
“Lance?”
“Not now, Shiro!” Lance clicked on the post, skipping the attached video and to the caption.
“Thanks to everyone for coming tonight. Unlike some people, I don’t show up to my shows drunk. @allura.altea @romelletherobin”
Of course! Altean Entertainment, Allura Altea! Keith worked for Altean Entertainment, and Allura was the brand of Altea, she practically was Altea!
Lance didn’t blink for a second. Which was surprising because he had been blinking a lot.
His eyes locked on the screen as if it had just shown him a picture of a penguin kneecaps.
“…What does that mean?” he said slowly.
Shiro hesitated. “It’s a caption. It’s—Lance, it’s clearly a jab at—”
“At me?” Lance cut in immediately.
“No—”
“But it says ‘some people’,” Lance continued, voice rising. “Who else would it be? Who else is he even talking about? I don’t show up drunk— I mean I don’t— I don’t—”
He stopped.
For half a second.
Then leaned closer to the screen again.
The tags.
@allura.altea
@romelletherobin
“…Why is Allura tagged?” Lance said, much quieter now.
Shiro rubbed his temple. “Because she was at the show.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Lance snapped. “She doesn’t just go to shows. She’s Allura. She has security clearance for weather systems.”
“That is not how that works.”
“And Romelle! Why is she there too? Why is she always there? Why is she everywhere Keith is?” Lance complained. He had noticed that Keith and Romelle had a close friendship and had no idea how it made sense
Shiro opened his mouth.
Closed it again.
That alone was enough for Lance to spiral further.
“Oh my god,” Lance whispered, leaning back in his chair. “This is not about me.”
Shiro paused. “It is about you.”
“No, no, no—” Lance pointed at the screen. “This is like… a triangle. A media triangle. A romance triangle. No, worse! A branding triangle.”
“Lance—”
“He’s soft launching a crossover,” Lance continued, faster now. “That’s what this is. He’s doing a soft launch with Allura and Romelle and I’m, what, industry filler?”
“That is not—”
“He’s replacing me.”
Shiro went very still.
“That is also not—”
Lance stood up abruptly, pacing now.
“Okay. Okay. Fine. If he wants to do that, fine. I can do that too. I can be mysterious. I can be photographed with—”
He stopped.
Looked around the room.
“…Who do I even have?”
“I mean, we could hook you up with—“
Lance ignored him.
Meanwhile, on the screen, Keith’s caption sat there unchanged, calm, almost bored in comparison to the chaos it had caused.
And underneath it, the comment section was already exploding.
For a full three seconds, nobody spoke.
“…He’s talking about me,” Lance began, sounding like a lost puppy.
Shiro didn’t respond, which, unfortunately, Lance interpreted as confirmation.
“He’s literally talking about me,” Lance repeated, leaning closer to the screen. “Look at it. ‘Unlike some people.’ That’s not plural. That’s targeted. That’s personal. He could have said ‘peoples’, Shiro!”
“It’s a general statement,” Shiro said carefully “and ‘peoples’ wouldn’t make sense. Lance, have you actually read the—“
“Nope. No, you–no, no, no. No, you don’t, you’re not allowed to change the topic! Why does it feel like he’s looking directly into my soul?
Shiro opened his mouth, pausing for a second as he thought about what to say. “Because, you’re already stressed. You’re looking into it too much. You’re worrying too much about someone who started off as someone’s guitarist and—“
“SOMEONES guitarist?! He started off as THE Lotor Daibazaal’s guitarist before he went solo!” Lance started, before turning his attention back to Shiro’s previous words “And that’s what people say when they’re guilty…” Lance muttered.
Shiro exhaled through his nose. “Lance. He didn’t name you.”
“He didn’t have to.”
The comment section refreshed again on the monitor like it was alive.
#LanceMcClainIsOverParty
#KeithKoganeWinsAgain
#LanceMcClainIsStillMyMan
“HE DIDN’T EVEN SAY HIS NAME BUT WE ALL KNOW”
“THIS IS DEFINITELY ABOUT LANCE”
“This might be THE funniest thing Lance has done to himself.”
Lance squinted. “Oh wow. So the public agrees with me.”
“They do not agree with you,” Shiro immediately tried to shut down the thoughts in Lance’s mind, “they’re egging you on. Ignore it.”
Lance ignored that.
Instead, he leaned back slowly in his chair like he’d just discovered betrayal for the first time in his life.
“So that’s it,” he said quietly. “He’s escalating.”
Shiro’s jaw went slack. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing right now. “He’s not escalating.”
“He is! You’re just saying that because you used to be his manager!” Lance insisted. “This is what escalation looks like. First it’s ‘some people,’ next it’s photos with celebrities, next it’s, what? A diss track? A stage stunt? A coordinated media coup?”
Shiro stared at him in disbelief “…It’s a caption.”
Lance nodded grimly, taking a sip of his now-cold coffee. “A caption is how wars start.”
“No, wars do not start through Instagram captions.”
“Name one war that didn’t start with disrespect.”
“That is not—Lance—”
But Lance wasn’t listening anymore.
He had leaned forward again, staring at Keith’s post like it had personally challenged him to a duel.
Then his expression shifted.
Slowly.
“…Wait.”
Shiro ran a hand down his face in despair. “What now?”
Lance narrowed his eyes, grabbing one of Shiro’s pens and using it to point at the monitor “Why is he wearing black in all those photos? You could practically see his chest piercings if you looked close enough!”
“I’m not even gonna ask why you know that. But it’s because it’s his aesthetic.”
“That’s not an answer,” Lance argued immediately. “That’s propaganda.”
Shiro closed his laptop slightly. “We are done looking at this.”
Lance pointed at the screen before Shiro could fully shut it. “No. Because this is bigger than me now.”
Shiro paused, looking at Lance with a raised eyebrow “…It is not bigger than you.”
Lance stood up again. “I need to respond.”
“No,” Shiro said instantly.
“I need to counterpost.”
“Absolutely not.”
“I need—” Lance gestured vaguely at the air like the solution was floating there. “—a statement. A photo. Something Lance. I can work with Lance-themed photos!”
Shiro slowly lowered his head into his hands, before snapping his head back up when he heard the drop of a robe and the sound of footsteps “Wait! Where are you going?”
Lance had ran out of the office, and Shiro could vaguely make out his words “I’m going to take shirtless beach pictures!”
“That is not a crisis response strategy!”
But Lance didn’t stop.
“If he wants branding warfare, I can do branding warfare!” he called back. “I have abs, Shiro!”
And on the screen, Keith’s caption remained unchanged.
Still calm.
Still smug.
Still very, very unbothered.
While the internet absolutely was not.