Chapter 102: The Infinite Road
Monday, February 29, 2016
6:45 AM
The Arizona desert sun showed no mercy. Through the Prevost’s thermal curtains, the first rays of light began filtering in with an intensity that promised another day of brutal heat. The bus had left Tucson behind three hours ago, devouring miles of cracked asphalt while the crew slept.
Michael was awake.
He hadn’t been able to sleep more than four consecutive hours since the tour began. His body was accustomed to the cycle of adrenaline and collapse, but his mind never shut off completely. Even now, lying on the leather sofa of his private suite, his brain continued processing melodies, song structures, and release strategies.
He wore only gray athletic shorts and a black tank top. His Jordan 4s, the same ones he had worn at every show so far, rested on the floor next to a half-empty water bottle. The air conditioning kept the room at sixty-six degrees, creating an artificial microclimate that contrasted with the inferno burning on the other side of the metal.
He sat up slowly, feeling the stiffness in his back muscles. Two consecutive shows, more than five total hours of performance, and his body was starting to take its toll. Amy was right: he needed to maintain his training or his stamina would collapse before reaching New York.
Michael walked toward the small space he had adapted as an improvised gym. The adjustable dumbbells gleamed under the bluish LED light. He grabbed the fifteen-pounders and started a series of bicep curls, observing his reflection in the darkened glass of the window.
The kid looking back at him didn’t resemble the Michael from six months ago. He had gained some muscle mass in his shoulders and arms, courtesy of Amy’s regimen. But it was something more than physical that had changed. His eyes had a different intensity, a calculating coldness that didn’t exist before waking up in this world.
‘Tucson was perfect,’ he thought as he completed the set. ‘Intimate. Personal. But I can’t replicate that in every city. Denver will be different.’
He set down the dumbbells and grabbed the resistance bands. While hooking them to the bathroom door frame, his mind was already three steps ahead, mapping the rest of the tour like a general planning a military campaign.
The smell of freshly brewed coffee filtered under the sliding door. Michael finished his last set of tricep dips and wiped the sweat from his neck with a black towel before stepping out to the common area of the bus.
T-Roc was sitting on one of the leather sofas, with a steaming cup in his hand and his Sennheiser headphones hanging around his neck. When he saw Michael, he raised the cup in a silent greeting.
“Good morning, beast,” T-Roc said with a tired smile. “How many hours did you sleep?”
“Enough,” Michael replied, walking toward the coffee maker. It wasn’t entirely a lie. “Karl still dead?”
“Snoring like a bear. I think Tucson left him more exhausted than you.” T-Roc pointed toward the bunks with his thumb. “Big Rob is up front with the driver. Says we’ll get to Denver around eight tonight if there’s no traffic.”
Michael poured himself a black coffee, no sugar. The bitter liquid went down his throat, dispersing the last cobwebs of sleep. He looked through the windshield window and saw the landscape gradually changing: Arizona’s brown desert was giving way to red rock formations that promised the transition toward the Colorado mountains.
“T-Roc, I need you to hear something,” Michael said, setting the cup on the kitchen counter. “Come to the studio.”
T-Roc raised an eyebrow but didn’t ask. He had learned that when Michael used that tone, something important was about to happen. He left his coffee and followed the young producer toward the private suite.
The Prevost’s portable studio was a miracle of compact engineering. The Focal monitors were mounted on anti-vibration stands, and the Apollo Twin interface gleamed with its characteristic amber LEDs. Michael sat in his leather chair and turned on the system with a fluid movement.
“Last night, while you guys were sleeping, I finished two new tracks,” Michael explained while navigating through his laptop folders. “I want to premiere one of them in Denver.”
T-Roc dropped onto the side sofa, crossing his arms. “Which one?”
Michael clicked on a file called “WITCHBLADES_MASTER_V3.wav.” The room immediately filled with a distorted, dark bass, followed by a synthesizer melody that sounded like a digitally processed lament. It was aggressive yet melancholic, a sonic contradiction that only Michael seemed capable of executing.
The structure was simple but effective: fast, cutting verses over a beat that hit like a pneumatic hammer, followed by an ethereal chorus where Michael’s voice multiplied in layers of atmospheric autotune.
T-Roc listened in silence for the three minutes the song lasted. When the last echo of distortion faded, he exhaled a long sigh.
“It’s darker than anything you’ve released,” T-Roc commented, processing what he had just heard. “Sounds like a satanic ritual produced in the future. I love it.”
Michael smiled slightly. “Exactly. Phoenix was fire and chaos. Tucson was intimacy and tears. Denver is going to be pure darkness. I want the audience to feel like they’re descending to some forbidden place.”
“And the other track?”
Michael navigated to another file: “BENZ_TRUCK_MASTER_V2.wav.” This time, the sound was completely different. A heavy, hard-hitting beat, almost industrial, with a minimalist melody that repeated hypnotically. The lyrics were more direct, more arrogant, speaking of wealth and excess with brutal honesty.
“This one is for when the audience needs to breathe after the darkness,” Michael explained. “Contrast is the key. You take them to the abyss with ‘Witchblades’ and pull them out with ‘Benz Truck.’ It’s pure emotional manipulation.”
T-Roc nodded slowly, admiring the architecture of the setlist Michael was building. “You’re a calculating son of a bitch, Mike. I mean that with respect.”
“I know,” Michael responded without a hint of modesty. “Now help me plan the transitions. I want ‘Witchblades’ to come in right after ‘Betrayed.’ The energy shift has to be brutal.”
The Prevost stopped at a gas station on the outskirts of Flagstaff to refuel. The outside air was noticeably cooler than in the low desert, a prelude to the mountain climate awaiting them in Colorado. Michael took advantage of the stop to stretch his legs and make a call he had been postponing.
He walked about twenty meters away from the bus, seeking some privacy between the fuel pumps and a small roadside restaurant offering burgers and watered-down coffee. He pulled out his iPhone and dialed Amy’s number.
She answered on the second ring.
“I thought you had forgotten I exist,” Amy said with a tone that mixed sarcasm with genuine concern. “How was Tucson?”
Michael leaned against a weathered wooden fence, watching the mountains in the distance. “Tucson was… different. The venue was small, like six hundred people. I couldn’t hide behind the light effects.”
“And how did you feel?”
The question was typical of Amy. She didn’t care about numbers or success metrics; she wanted to know how he was doing, the kid behind the character. Michael took a moment before responding.
“Exhausted,” he finally admitted. “But in a way that feels… right. Like I’m exactly where I should be.”
“Are you following the training plan?”
“I did an hour this morning on the bus. Curls, dips, resistance bands. It’s not the same as the gym, but it’s something.”
Amy sighed on the other end of the line. “Michael, your voice is your main instrument. If you get dehydrated or physically exhausted, your vocal performance is going to degrade. How much water are you drinking?”
“Enough.”
“That answer tells me nothing. I want numbers. How many liters a day?”
Michael thought back. Between coffee, isotonic drinks, and bottled water, he was probably at about two liters. “Two, maybe two and a half.”
“You need at least four with your activity level. More if you’re on stages with a lot of heat. Understood?”
“Understood, coach.”
Amy seemed satisfied with Michael’s response, though he knew she wasn’t completely convinced. There was a pause in the conversation, and when Amy spoke again, her tone was different.
“I saw some clips from Tucson on Instagram,” she said. “The moment where you step off the stage and walk through the crowd… that was real, Michael. Not the character, you. People felt it.”
Michael didn’t respond immediately. That moment had been instinctive, not calculated. For the first time in a long while, he had acted without thinking about metrics or viral impact.
“Thanks, Amy,” he finally said. “I’ll send you the training report tomorrow.”
“You’d better. And drink water, damn it.”
He hung up with a small smile on his lips. Amy was one of the few people who treated him like a human being, not a product or an investment. She was an anchor he didn’t know he needed.
The Prevost had crossed the Colorado border an hour ago. The landscape had changed dramatically: the plains gave way to pine-covered hills and the air felt thinner, cleaner. Michael was sitting in his studio, but he wasn’t working on music.
In front of him, his laptop screen showed the Ethereum chart in real time. The green line had risen another three percent overnight, bringing the price to $9.47 per coin. Michael did the mental calculation automatically: 450,000 ETH multiplied by $9.47 equaled $4,261,500.
Four million two hundred sixty-one thousand five hundred dollars.
On paper.
Untouchable until Harris completed the Dubai structure.
Michael closed his eyes and let the System interface materialize in his field of vision. The IP counter glowed with a steady golden light.
[IMPACT POINTS: 645,200 IP]
[ETHEREUM HOLDINGS: 450,000 ETH]
[CURRENT VALUE: $4,261,500 USD]
[24-MONTH PROJECTION: CLASSIFIED]
The last line always appeared like that, as if the System wanted to remind him that the future wasn’t completely predictable, not even for him. But Michael didn’t need the System to tell him what he knew: in January 2018, those same coins would be worth almost five hundred million dollars.
‘Two years,’ he thought. ‘I just have to keep everything running for two more years.’
He opened his eyes and the System faded. He took his secondary phone, the one he used exclusively for financial communications, and checked Harris’s messages. There was a new one from three hours ago:
“Contacted a law firm specializing in the Emirates. First meeting scheduled for next week. I’ll need your passport and some signed documents. Sending you the details via secure email. - H”
Michael smiled. Harris was efficient when given a clear directive. The machine was in motion.
He responded with a short message: “Received. Send me everything you need signed. I can do it digitally from the bus.”
He put away the phone and looked out the window again. The Colorado mountains rose in the distance, covered with snow on the highest peaks. Somewhere in that mountain range was Denver, where more than eight hundred people had bought tickets to see him perform tomorrow.
Eight hundred people who had no idea they were paying to see a time traveler disguised as a teenage rapper.
Karl finally emerged from the bunks with disheveled hair and puffy eyes. He poured himself a double coffee and dropped onto the sofa next to T-Roc, who was reviewing the playlists for tomorrow’s show.
“What did I miss?” Karl asked with a hoarse voice.
“Mike finished two new songs,” T-Roc replied without looking up from his laptop. “He wants to premiere ‘Witchblades’ in Denver.”
Karl frowned. “Another new song? We just released ‘Save That Shit’ three days ago. The algorithm is still processing that impact.”
“The algorithm can process more than one thing at a time.” Michael’s voice came from the doorway of his suite. He was dressed in a clean black hoodie and his Jordan 4s, ready for whatever the day brought. “We’re not releasing ‘Witchblades’ yet. I’m just premiering it live. Let people record it with their phones, let them upload shitty clips to Twitter. Hunger is better than satisfaction.”
Karl processed the strategy while drinking his coffee. It was risky, but it had logic. Creating demand before supply was an old trick, but Michael executed it with a precision that surpassed industry veterans with decades of experience.
“And ‘Benz Truck’?” Karl asked.
“That one gets saved for later. Maybe Chicago, maybe New York. Depends on how the audience reacts.”
Michael walked to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. Four liters a day, Amy had said. He was still missing at least two.
“Karl, I need you to talk to the Denver promoter,” Michael continued while drinking. “I want to know exactly what sound system they have. If it’s not at least a Meyer or JBL line array, we’re going to have to adjust the setlist frequencies. The bass on ‘Witchblades’ is very dense; if the system can’t handle it, it’s going to sound like shit.”
Karl nodded, already taking notes on his phone. “I’m on it. Anything else?”
“Yes. I want you to contact Cole. I need to talk to him about the upcoming videos. I’m thinking about filming something for ‘Falling Down’ when we get to Chicago.”
“‘Falling Down’? I don’t recognize that title.”
Michael smiled mysteriously. “You haven’t heard it yet. But you will.”
He returned to his suite and closed the door. The afternoon sun filtered through the curtains, projecting stripes of golden light over the production desk. Michael sat in front of the monitors and opened a new project in Ableton.
The file was empty, waiting to be filled.
‘Awful Things,’ he thought as his fingers positioned themselves over the MIDI keyboard. ‘It’s time to build the next piece of the puzzle.’
The System’s guide was already in his mind: the guitar melody, the chord progression, the beat structure. All he had to do was translate it into reality, note by note, layer by layer.
The bus continued advancing toward Denver while Michael began to shape the next anthem that would conquer the world.
8:45 PM
Denver’s lights appeared on the horizon like a mosaic of earthly stars. The Prevost descended down Interstate 25, surrounded by mountains that stood out against a sky still holding the last violet tones of sunset.
Michael was standing by the windshield, watching the city approach. He had spent the last three hours working on “Awful Things,” and the basic structure was already complete. Tomorrow he would polish it, add the vocals, and have it ready to mix before the show.
T-Roc approached and stood beside him.
“First time in Denver, right?” the DJ asked.
“First time in Colorado, actually,” Michael replied. “I’ve never seen mountains like this.”
It was true. In his previous life, he had never left California. This trip was so many things at once: a musical tour, a cultural conquest campaign, and also an exploration of a country he barely knew.
“The altitude here is different,” T-Roc commented. “We’re at over five thousand feet above sea level. You’re going to feel like you’re running out of air when you start jumping on stage.”
Michael nodded, storing the information. Another factor he would have to consider in his preparation.
The bus took an exit and began navigating the streets of downtown Denver. Buildings rose on both sides, a mix of historic architecture and modern structures of glass and steel. People walked on the sidewalks with coats and scarves, a reminder that they were no longer in the desert.
“The hotel is ten minutes away,” Big Rob announced from the co-pilot seat. “Tomorrow morning we do soundcheck. The venue opens doors at seven.”
Michael returned to his suite to collect his things. While packing his laptop and headphones into his backpack, he took one last look at the space that had been his home for the past few days. The portable studio, the improvised gym, the bed where he had barely slept.
‘This is just the beginning,’ he thought. ‘Phoenix was the birth. Tucson was the confirmation. Denver will be the expansion.’
He closed the backpack and stepped out into the hallway.
The tour continued.
And Michael Demiurge was just warming up.