Chapter 87: The End of Incognito
Sunday, February 7, 2016 (Morning)
The morning sun streamed into the canyon house living room, illuminating a scene of messy teenage domesticity.
The coffee table—which was still an overturned wooden crate—was covered in the remains of a massive breakfast: open donut boxes, half-finished Starbucks coffee cups, and breakfast sandwich wrappers.
The "Tribe" was gathered.
Michael was sitting on the floor, back resting against the sofa, his MacBook Pro connected to the old TV's sound system (which T-Roc had optimized surprisingly well).
In front of him, sprawled across the sofa and the rug, were his judges. His unofficial board of directors.
Jake, Sam, Leo, and Nate.
"Okay," said Michael, rubbing his hands together. "This was my week. Five days. Five songs. Don't be nice."
"We never are," said Leo, biting into a glazed donut. "Hit play."
Michael opened the "FEBRUARY RELEASES" folder.
First, he dropped 'XO TOUR Llif3'.
The spiraling synth intro filled the room. And then, the bass.
Jake, who was half-asleep on the sofa, sat up abruptly. He started nodding his head instinctively. By the time the chorus hit—"Push me to the edge, all my friends are dead"—Jake was already air drumming.
"Dude!" shouted Jake when the song ended. "That's it! That's what I need in my car! It's dark, but... it makes you want to speed! It's an anthem!"
Michael smiled. Road test passed.
"Next," said Michael. "'Gucci Gang'."
The two-note piano began. Ding... ding...
And then the repetitive mantra. "Gucci gang, Gucci gang, Gucci gang..."
Nate frowned, confused. Sam giggled.
But Leo... Leo started laughing. A loud, genuine laugh. He put his hand to his forehead, shaking his head.
"No way," said Leo, laughing. "It's... it's the stupidest thing I've ever heard in my life."
"Is it bad?" asked Michael, amused.
"It's horrible," said Leo, still laughing. "And it's brilliant. It's so simple it hurts. It's going to be number one. People are going to hate to love it. You're an evil genius, Mike."
"I knew you'd like it," said Michael.
Finally, he played 'I'm Gonna Be'.
The bright piano and military march changed the atmosphere. The lyrics about determination and success resonated in the quiet room.
When it ended, Sam, the group's cinephile, nodded slowly.
"It sounds like a movie," said Sam. "It sounds like the end credits after the hero wins the war but loses the girl. It's... epic."
Nate nodded in agreement. "It sounds expensive."
Michael closed the laptop. The verdict was unanimous. He had covered all bases: the party anthem, the viral meme, and the epic soundtrack.
"Thanks, guys," said Michael. "It means a lot."
"It means you're going to be filthy rich," corrected Jake, stealing the last donut. "And you're going to treat us to better things than donuts."
Michael looked at the clock on his phone. 11:45 AM.
He jumped up.
"Shit, I'm late," he said, picking up his backpack. "I have to go."
"Where are you going?" asked Sam. "More rap star business?"
"No," said Michael, looking for his keys. "I'm going to the gym. Meeting Amy."
Jake raised an eyebrow, with a mischievous smile. "Amy? The mysterious trainer? The one who makes you walk like a penguin?"
"That's the one," said Michael, opening the door. "Lock up when you leave. And don't eat my food from the fridge."
"Say hi to her for me!" shouted Jake as Michael walked out to his Corolla.
Michael started the car. The jury had spoken. The music was approved. Now, it was time to return to the reality of squats and sweat, where no one knew who he was. Or so he thought.
Sunday, February 7, 2016 (Noon)
Michael parked his Corolla in front of "The Green Spot", an organic juice and smoothie bar near the gym. It was neutral territory. Far from the studio, far from the parties.
Amy was already there, sitting at a metal table outside, wearing sunglasses and sportswear. She had two huge green smoothies in front of her.
"You're late, Mike," she said as he sat down. "Your kale smoothie is getting warm. And believe me, warm it tastes like rotten grass."
"Traffic," lied Michael, taking a seat. "Thanks for treating."
"You paid last time," she said. "Besides, you need the vitamins. You look pale. Another sleepless week?"
"Something like that. A lot of work."
Michael took a sip of the smoothie. It tasted horrible, but he felt it was doing him good.
They chatted for twenty minutes. They didn't talk about music. They talked about next week's leg routine, how expensive rent was in Los Angeles, and a bad movie Amy had seen.
For Michael, it was a respite. With Amy, he was just Mike. The kid who suffered with squats. There were no expectations. There was no "Demiurge".
Or so he thought.
A group of three teenagers walked by on the sidewalk. They were laughing, looking at their phones. Suddenly, one of them, a kid wearing a Supreme t-shirt, stopped dead in his tracks.
He looked at the table. He looked at Michael.
Michael was wearing his sunglasses and hoodie, his usual camouflage. But it was no longer enough.
The kid approached, with hesitant steps. His friends stopped, curious.
"Excuse me..." said the kid. "Are you... are you Michael Demiurge?"
Amy stopped drinking her smoothie. She looked at the kid, then at Michael, with an expression of total confusion. She expected Michael to say no, or that the kid had confused him with someone else.
But Michael sighed, put his cup on the table, and took off his sunglasses.
He smiled. It wasn't a forced smile. It was the calm smile of someone accepting their reality.
"Yeah," said Michael. "It's me. What's up?"
The kid's eyes went wide as saucers. "No way! I knew it was you! Dude, 'Look At Me!' is insane. And Drugs yous should try it... that song is fire. I listen to it all day."
"Thanks, brother. I appreciate it," said Michael.
"Can we... can we take a picture? My friends aren't going to believe me."
"Sure. Come here."
Michael stood up. He accepted gladly. He posed next to the kid, flashed a peace sign at the phone camera. The kid's friends approached too, excited.
It was a quick, polite moment.
"Thanks, Michael. You're the king," said the kid. They ran off, screaming with excitement.
Michael sat back down. He put his sunglasses on. He went back to his smoothie as if nothing had happened.
But the silence at the table was heavy.
He looked up. Amy was staring at him. She had one eyebrow raised and her mouth slightly open.
"Okay," said Amy slowly. "What the hell just happened?"
"A fan," said Michael, shrugging.
"A fan? Since when do you have fans?" asked Amy, incredulous. "And since when is your name 'Demiurge'? I thought your last name was Gray."
Michael shifted in his chair. "It's my stage name."
"Stage name?" she repeated. She crossed her arms. "Michael Demiurge? Are you famous or something?"
Michael grimaced. He hated that word.
"I'm... somewhat famous," he admitted. "On the internet. I make music."
"Music?" Amy let out a laugh of disbelief. "Mike, the kid who almost passes out with 20-pound dumbbells... is an internet star?"
She pulled her phone out of her leggings pocket with a quick, almost aggressive movement. Her thumbs flew over the screen, unlocking it.
"Let's see..." she muttered, frowning with skepticism. "Let's see how famous you are, 'Michael Demiurge'."
Michael sat there, sipping his green smoothie, watching her. He didn't try to stop her. He knew the game was over. The wall between his two lives had just crumbled.
Amy opened Instagram. She typed the name in the search bar.
Michael Demiurge.
The profile appeared instantly at the top of the list.
Amy fell silent. Her eyes scanned the screen, processing the information that contradicted everything she thought she knew about her gym partner.
First, she saw the blue verified check. They didn't give that to just anyone. Then, she saw the follower count. 156,000.
And then, the photos.
They weren't photos of a clumsy kid trying to lift weights. They were photos of a star. She saw an image from the concert at The Observatory: Michael shirtless, bathed in red light, screaming in front of a sea of a thousand people who looked like they were in a religious trance. She saw video clips with millions of views. She saw the California tour flyer.
And then, her finger stopped. It froze over a recent post.
It was the cover of a song. A colorful, distorted image of syrup spilling.
'Betrayed'.
Amy gasped. She clicked on the video.
The unmistakable melody of synthesized bells played through her phone's small speaker. Ding... ding-ding...
'Xans don't make you...'
'Xans gon' take you...'
Amy looked up slowly. She looked at the phone. She looked at Michael. She looked at the phone again.
The connection was made in her brain with an audible click.
"It's YOU!" she shouted, slamming her palm on the metal table, making the smoothies shake. "The one with the Skittles song! The one I like!"
Michael smiled, a guilty smile of a caught child. "Surprise."
"You let me recommend it to you!" exclaimed Amy, laughing with disbelief but shaking her head. "We were in the parking lot and I told you you should listen to the lyrics about quitting drugs! And you wrote it!"
She put the phone on the table, the screen still glowing with Michael's face. Her expression changed, becoming a bit more serious, more hurt.
"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked directly. "We've been training for weeks. We talk every day. You've seen me sweat, I've seen you fail lifts. You could have mentioned: 'Oh, by the way, I'm a rap star who plays for thousands of people'."
Michael sighed. He took off his sunglasses completely, placing them next to his smoothie. He looked her in the eye.
"Because it doesn't matter here," said Michael, pointing to the space between them, the gym across the street. "My artist life is noise, Amy. It's stress. It's numbers, contracts, people asking me for things, people judging me. My private life... the gym, you... that's the only thing I have that's real."
He leaned forward, elbows on the table.
"I wanted a place where I was just Mike. The rookie who doesn't know how to bench press. The normal kid. If I had told you who I was on the first day, would you have treated me the same? Would you have yelled at me to go lower on squats? Or would you have treated me like a VIP client?"
Amy thought about it for a second. She looked at the sincerity in Michael's eyes.
"I probably would have yelled at you more," she said, a smile returning to her lips. "I hate VIP clients. They're lazy."
Michael laughed. "Exactly. That's why I didn't tell you."
Amy studied him for a moment longer. She saw that, despite the followers and the fame, he was still the same kid who needed to be reminded to breathe between sets.
"You're an idiot, Mike," she said, giving him a gentle kick under the table. "A talented and lying idiot. But I get it."
She drank from her smoothie, processing the new reality. Her gym charity project was the voice she listened to in her car.
"Okay," said Amy. "I forgive you. But it's going to cost you."
"What do you want? VIP tickets to the next show? Signed merch?" offered Michael.
"No," said Amy, shaking her head. "I want something better. Something for Rachel."
"Rachel?"
"My best friend," explained Amy. "She is a die-hard fan of yours. For real. She has posters of you that she printed from the internet taped to her wall. She was the one who showed me 'Ghost Boy' months ago, when you barely had any views."
Amy took a sip of her smoothie. "Because of her, I discovered your music. She plays your songs in the car all the time. She's going to die if she finds out I've been training you and yelling at you for a month."
She grabbed her phone again and opened the camera.
"Send her a greeting," ordered Amy. "Right now."
Michael smiled. He liked this. It was an honest request, not a commercial transaction.
"Sure. Go ahead."
Amy pointed the phone at him. "Action."
Michael looked at the lens. For a second, he stopped being Mike from the gym and activated his "Demiurge" charisma. He took off his sunglasses to make it personal.
"Hi, Rachel," he said, his voice calm and deep. "I'm Michael. Amy just told me you're an OG fan, from the 'Ghost Boy' era. I wanted to thank you for listening and for being there from the beginning. It means a lot."
He paused and smiled, looking at Amy behind the camera.
"You have a good friend. Although I warn you she's a tyrant in the gym. She makes me suffer every day. Take care."
Amy cut the recording, laughing. "Hey! I'm not a tyrant. I'm motivational."
"Tyrant," insisted Michael.
Amy sent the video immediately. Seconds later, her phone vibrated with a reply. Amy looked at the screen and burst out laughing.
"She says: 'YOU'RE LYING. IT'S AI. IT CAN'T BE'. And then she sent like thirty crying emojis."
Michael laughed. "Tell her it's real."
They finished their smoothies. Michael stood up, putting his sunglasses back on.
"Well, coach. I have to go to work. I have songs to finish."
They walked together toward the parking lot. The atmosphere between them had changed, but for the better. The secret was gone, and the friendship remained intact.
When they reached their cars, Amy stopped by his door.
"Hey, Mike," she said.
"Yeah?"
"Tomorrow is Monday. Chest and triceps," she said, with a mischievous smile. "And I'm warning you: now that I know you're a celebrity, my rate just went up."
"Oh, yeah?" asked Michael, opening his Corolla door.
"Yeah. Double the reps. I'm not going to let you get soft just because you're famous."
Michael let out a genuine laugh. "Deal. See you tomorrow."
He got into his car and watched her drive away.
Michael started the engine. He felt light. His worlds had collided —fame and normality— and there hadn't been an explosion.
On the contrary.
He had his business team (Karl and Harris). He had his tribe (Jake, Sam, Leo, Nate). And now, he had a connection to reality that asked nothing of him but physical effort.
He put the car in gear. "Factory Week" was over. The jury of his friends had approved the music. His secret with Amy had been revealed.
Everything was in place.
It was time to start the February invasion.