Chapter 95: The Crystal Arsenal
Saturday, February 27, 2016
8:30 AM
Michael opened his eyes and the first thing he experienced was a piercing pressure right behind his eyeballs. It wasn’t the physical discomfort left by alcohol or substance consumption; it was a cerebral heaviness, a kind of electrical fatigue from having served as a receptor for the System’s massive data discharge during the early morning hours. He remained completely still, lying on his back on the side sofa of his private suite at the back of the Prevost trailer.
The vehicle moved with mechanical smoothness, but the slight constant incline and the change in engine tone indicated they had already left the plains of California behind and were ascending through the elevations of the Arizona desert. The morning sunlight was merciless. It filtered through the small gaps between the thermal curtains and the window frames, projecting beams of white light so intense they made the dust motes suspended in the air sparkle.
Michael sat up slowly, feeling his muscles protest from the position he had fallen asleep in. He was wearing the same oversized black cotton hoodie, heather gray athletic shorts, and his immaculate Jordan 4s.
He stood up and walked with short steps toward the stainless steel sink built into the studio furniture. Michael turned on the cold water faucet and filled a glass, drinking the contents in one gulp to quench the burning thirst he felt. Then he filled his hands with water and splashed it on his face repeatedly, letting the cold restore his clarity.
He dried off with a small dark gray towel and sat in his leather chair in front of the production desk.
The Focal monitors and Apollo interface were in standby mode, emitting small flashes of red and amber light. Michael didn’t need to touch any buttons or utter a single word.
He simply focused his thoughts on the System’s architecture and immediately the interface materialized in his field of vision, superimposing itself over the physical reality of the room.
[REMAINING IMPACT POINTS: 645,200 IP]
The counter had dropped drastically after the million-point investment, but the “Production Library” area was saturated. Michael observed the cascade of golden files blinking before him. They were data that included vocal tracks, chord progressions, and mixing schematics. He slid his mind over the list, seeing the names of the new assets that now formed part of his repertoire:
“Lo Que Siento”: A bilingual track with a Dream Pop atmosphere.
“Falling Down”: A melancholic anthem of acoustic guitars.
“Witchblades”: Aggressive and dark sound, loaded with bass for live shows.
“Benz Truck”: A heavy, hard-hitting rhythm with strong visual aesthetics.
“The Brightside”: Fusion of punk-rock with melodic trap.
“White Wine”: A raw, underground track with distinctive energy.
“Gym Class”: Ethereal and atmospheric production.
“Spotlight”: Massive pop-trap rhythm with great commercial potential.
“Awful Things”: Pop-punk and trap crossover with a stadium-ready chorus.
“Goodbyes”: A track of high emotional intensity and polished production.
“The Way I See Things”: The purest essence of sad trap.
Complete Album: “Diamonds”: A project of more than 20 songs with an experimental funk and pop-trap sound.
Michael leaned back in the chair, feeling the leather padding against his back. The buzzing in his ears began to subside, giving way to a cold clarity as he mentally reviewed the order of the files. ‘Eleven new songs and an entire album. It’s more than most achieve in their entire careers,’ he thought as he adjusted the cuffs of his hoodie.
He knew that each of those files represented another nail in the coffin of the traditional music industry. He was no longer just a kid with a couple of viral songs; he now possessed the arsenal necessary to dictate the sound of an entire decade. He stared at the golden list a moment longer before closing the interface, preparing himself for what would come upon arriving in Phoenix.
9:15 AM
Michael fixed his gaze on a dead spot on the padded wall of the studio, just above the Focal monitors. He didn’t need to physically interact with the laptop to navigate the System’s inventory; his mind simply moved through the golden files until it stopped on one titled “Lo Que Siento.”
As soon as he focused on the name, the song’s structure unfolded in his consciousness with absolute clarity. ‘Dream Pop… lazy synthesizers,’ Michael thought as he analyzed the track’s rhythmic architecture.
The melody was enveloping and relaxed, very far from the aggressiveness of Gucci Gang, but with a sonic sophistication that made it feel timeless.
However, what really captured his attention was the lyrics. As he “listened” to it in his mind, the alternation between English and Spanish fascinated him. ‘This isn’t a forced attempt to enter the Hispanic market,’ he reflected as he ran his hand through his clean hair. ‘It’s natural. It’s exactly how people talk in the neighborhoods of L.A. or right here in Arizona.’
He reclined in the leather chair, stretching his legs covered by the gray shorts. His white leather sneakers brushed against the base of the production desk. He looked through the small side window; the bus was crossing a zone of reddish rock formations under an electric blue sky.
‘Phoenix, El Paso, Houston… the Sun Belt,’ he reasoned internally. ‘If I give them this at the right moment, I won’t just be the sad trap kid from the Internet. I’ll be one of their own.’ Michael understood perfectly the power of identity.
He knew that the Latino market in the United States was a giant hungry for modern representation that didn’t fall into the clichés of reggaeton or traditional pop.
‘This “chill” sound with bilingual lyrics is a political weapon,’ he thought coldly. ‘It’s the perfect bridge between my aesthetic and border culture.’
He didn’t move his lips, but a small smile of satisfaction appeared on his face. He decided that Phoenix would be the ideal place to start polishing the mix of that track in his portable studio. The System had delivered the master files (stems) with impeccable quality, but Michael wanted to add his own touch, making sure the bass hit at the exact frequency to make the trailer vibrate for the rest of the trip.
He closed the file mentally and returned to the main menu, feeling how the excitement of the discovery was beginning to mitigate the headache from the early morning.
9:45 AM
Michael mentally scrolled through the list of files until one name stood out above the others: “Falling Down.” When he focused his attention on the file, the System not only allowed him to hear the melody but transferred the complete emotional charge of the composition to him.
It began with an acoustic guitar arpeggio, processed with a filter that made it sound both vintage and modern at the same time. Then the voice entered. It was an epic chorus, loaded with a melancholy that felt physical. The lyrics spoke of rain, loss, and a feeling of loneliness that Michael knew well—not just from his current life, but from the weight of carrying decades of future knowledge in the body of a teenager.
‘This song is an anthem,’ Michael reflected as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘It’s not just trap, it’s not just rock. It’s the peak of what I’m building.’
He sat in silence, feeling the vibration of the trailer’s engine through his white sneakers. The simplicity of the song was what made it powerful. Michael analyzed the chord progression and the background vocal arrangements. In 2016, no one was making music that sounded so vulnerable and, at the same time, so massive.
‘If I release this now, in the middle of the Arizona tour, people won’t know how to react,’ he reasoned internally. ‘It’s too big. Too definitive.’
He looked at his hands, clean of tattoos, and then observed his reflection in the laptop’s dark monitor. He was wearing his black hoodie and gray shorts; he looked like an ordinary kid, but in his head a song that could define the aesthetic of an entire generation was playing.
‘I can’t waste “Falling Down” on a five-hundred-person club show,’ he decided coldly. ‘This song needs a narrative. It needs a moment of maximum media impact, maybe a fake posthumous release or a collaboration that stops the industry.’
Michael understood that the value of a work lay not only in its quality but in its scarcity and timing. He knew that if he saturated the market with hits of this caliber too soon, the public would become immune to the genius. He had to dose the arsenal.
‘Saved for now,’ he thought as he sent the file to an encrypted folder within the System’s interface. ‘Maximum priority for the end of the year or for the beginning of 2017.’
He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the guitar melody fade in his mind. The air conditioning of the portable studio continued to function silently, maintaining the ideal temperature for the thousands of dollars worth of equipment surrounding him. Michael suddenly felt exhausted, not from sleep, but from the responsibility of possessing songs he knew would change the world.
10:15 AM
Michael mentally opened the heaviest folder in the inventory: “Diamonds.” Instantly, a row of more than twenty files unfolded in his vision. They weren’t just demos; they were advanced production projects, with layers of brilliant synthesizers, bass arrangements with funk influences, and drum rhythms that fused trap with a much more commercial and polished pop sound.
‘This is a game changer,’ Michael thought, as the System allowed him to break down the tracks. ‘It’s brilliant, it’s catchy… but it’s not a solo project.’
When analyzing the vocal guides that the System had embedded in the files, Michael noticed a constant pattern. Each song was structured like a dialogue. There were sections designed for his voice—dense, melodic, and with that dark tint that characterized him—and other sections that felt empty, with an energy that required another vocal register to complete.
‘The System gave me a collaborative album,’ he reasoned internally, rubbing the back of his neck beneath the fabric of his black hoodie. ‘My verses provide the shadow, but these songs need another voice. Another style.’
He stared at the Focal monitors, which vibrated almost imperceptibly with the movement of the trailer on the Arizona highway. Michael began searching for names in his head, but stopped quickly. He had no contacts. His circle was reduced to Karl, T-Roc, and Harris. He wasn’t part of any “crew” and his rise had been so fast that he remained a stranger to most of the Los Angeles industry.
‘Who the hell am I going to record this with?’ he wondered. ‘I don’t know anyone.’
For a second, the image of The Weeknd crossed his mind. He remembered the brief encounter they had and how the singer had posted one of his songs on his social media, giving him a massive boost of credibility. ‘The Weeknd?’ he thought, analyzing the possibility. ‘He has the pop register… but no. His vibe is different. This doesn’t fit with what he’s doing now.’
Michael dismissed the idea almost immediately. He didn’t feel it was the right direction for the album and, besides, he had no way to propose a twenty-song project to a superstar of that level without seeming desperate.
‘I don’t have anyone,’ he concluded coldly. ‘For now, this album doesn’t move.’
Michael closed the Diamonds folder and moved it to an encrypted storage section within the System’s interface. He knew the songs were too good to waste or to record poorly by himself out of simple ego. He was sitting in a $50,000 bunker surrounded by technology, but in terms of artistic alliances, he was still on an island.
He decided he wasn’t going to waste time thinking about impossible collaborations. He locked the files and returned to the main menu. He had a tour to attend to and enough individual material to destroy every city before worrying about who would fill the gaps in Diamonds.
11:00 AM
Michael closed the laptop and sat for a few seconds in the dimness of his suite, listening to the rhythmic sound of the tires against the hot Arizona asphalt.
The studio’s sound isolation was so good that the outside world seemed like a distant simulation. He stood up, adjusted his gray athletic shorts, and walked toward the dark wood sliding door.
When he opened it, the change was immediate: the air conditioning from the rest of the bus—mixed with a light smell of freshly brewed coffee and cereal—hit him head-on.
He walked down the central aisle of the Prevost, passing the bunks that remained with their curtains open. In the dining area, Karl was seated with his laptop open and a mess of folders with venue contracts and road maps. T-Roc was on the sofa across from him with headphones on, nodding his head to the rhythm of a beat while watching the Arizona desert landscape through the window.
“Finally coming out,” Karl said, looking up and adjusting his glasses. “We’re just under an hour from Phoenix. Big Rob already talked to the venue security; the line of fans already wraps around the block under this scorching sun.”
Michael nodded without stopping and approached the small kitchen bar to pour himself a glass of orange juice. His white leather sneakers, immaculate and without a single mark, squeaked slightly against the trailer’s hardwood floor. He wore no jewelry, no watches, nothing that made him stand out; he was just a sixteen-year-old kid in a black hoodie.
“How’s the sound system there?” Michael asked, maintaining his direct and professional tone. “I’m going to test a couple of new tracks today. I need the bass to be calibrated. I don’t want the sound to break when I drop the new subs.”
“Rob says it’s a high-end JBL system, well-maintained for a club that size,” Karl replied, quickly returning to his screen. “You’ll have time for soundcheck as soon as we arrive. Michael… remember it’s the first official show of the tour. Don’t put too much pressure on yourself with material we haven’t rehearsed a thousand times.”
Michael drank the juice in one gulp and left the glass in the sink. He looked at Karl and then at T-Roc, who was now watching him with curiosity, having removed one of his headphones. Neither of them had any idea that, while they slept, he had received a catalog of songs worth billions. To them, he was still the talented kid they had to take from city to city.
‘If they knew what’s in those files, they wouldn’t be so calm,’ Michael thought as he ran his hand through his clean hair.
“The new material is what’s going to make this tour something people talk about for years, Karl,” Michael said, walking back toward his suite to pick up his backpack. “Get ready. Phoenix has no idea what’s coming.”
He entered his room and closed the door. Through the small side window, the Arizona desert stretched infinitely under the blinding sun. Michael sat down one last time before arrival, feeling the weight of the songs recorded in his mind. “The Demiurge Tour” was about to stop being a series of concerts and become the official launch of his hegemony.