'Good…. Really good.'
On the main holographic display, the analytics for Silent Hill: First Fear were still ticking steadily upwards. It was a weird feeling, seeing the nightmares of my past life become the welcomed terrors of this one. A part of me did a little fist-pump every time I saw the login numbers always spiked without ever dipping down.
"Kate," I said, swiveling to face her.
"I need you to do a wellness check on Sabine and the new creative team we just absorbed… Meteor Creatives... I want them prepped and ready to dive into the comics and manga storyboards. I've got the IPs, and now we finally have the dedicated artists to bring them to life…. I can't wait to see they bring the good stuff to life..."
Kate's sharp eyes narrowed slightly, not in disagreement, but in calculation. "Of course, Sael. I'll assess their integration progress and resource allocation personally. Their employment contracts have several performance-based clauses we should… motivate them with." A ghost of a smile played on her lips. She lived for this stuff.
"By the way… will you be alright here?"
"I think I can manage to not burn the place down for an hour," I said, giving her a lazy, two-fingered salute.
"Besides, Cassandra and I have some music biz to discuss…. I'd be to occupied with works to do anything at all…"
"If you say, so Honey," With a curt, efficient nod, Kate gathered her phone and headed for the door, her heels making soft, decisive clicks on the polished floor.
The door shut behind her, leaving a sudden, different kind of quiet in the room. It was just me and Cassandra now. Cassandra, ever the picture of relaxed, behind-the-scenes power, was perched on the edge of the large sofa, one leg tucked under her. She took a slow sip from a glass of ice water, the cubes clinking gently.
"So," she began, her voice a smooth, calm contrast to the city's chaos outside.
"For Sael VT…. What's the next move? The channel's buzz is a live wire; your popularity has yet seen a sign of slowing down… I think, we need to strike while the iron is molten."
"The album... My album… It's ready to go, honestly… I got all of my tracks mastered, cover art is concepted…. And it's not just me. Millie's EP is in the can, too…. if we want to, we can serve the public and fans that..." I nodded, lacing my fingers behind my head.
A genuine smile broke across Cassandra's face. "That is great news… The fans and followers' anticipation are at an all-time high... The receptions to your singles have been… quite explosive… In my opinion, this is the perfect time to let it out, But, what's the holdup?"
"The timing, I guess…. And the Music videos?" I said simply.
"The final piece... And before you ask about directors and budgets and all that noise, I'm handling it… I'll direct them myself... Even Milie will be handling that part herself…"
I kinda wanted to film my own music video, Milie also wanted to film her own music video. And also, I wanted to time the release of our debut album properly. I expected pushback from Cassandra. A question about my experience, a concern about the workload. Instead, Cassandra just shrugged, the motion fluid and agreeable.
"Makes sense… You've got the vision…. and frankly, they align perfectly with the aesthetic you've built and the persona of Sael VT…. If you're shooting yours, you may as well shoot Millie, too... since she wanted the same thing,"
"See? You get it," I said, a grin spreading on my face. "You've got it all figured out."
"You're the one with the plan, Sael…. I just clear the path," she replied, raising her glass in a tiny toast.
"So, how does the great director plan to pull this off? We're talking location scouts, crews, permits… L.A. is a nightmare for that stuff."
I chuckled, pointing a thumb over my shoulder at the sleek, black VR rig sitting in the corner of the suite, looking like a piece of minimalist art.
"We're not doing any of that…. We're shooting everything in VR…. Full-dive, photorealistic environments. I can build a cathedral out of crystal or a battlefield on Mars without leaving this room… Simple."
Cassandra's eyebrows rose, and then she nodded, a look of dawning understanding replacing her mild surprise.
"Of course, I Should have known…. No budget for set design, no tantrums from directors of photography, no waiting for the perfect sunset. Just pure, uncompromised vision. I like it." She took another sip of her water.
"Noted..."
The word was barely out of her mouth when the sound from the large wall-mounted TV, which I always kept on low for background noise, suddenly spiked in volume and toxicity.
{"—that white ass boy better not come here and mess up our thang, ya'll know what I'm sayin'?"} a voice dripping with artificial bravado and barely-concealed insecurity blared.
{"Like… like, shit nigga, we don't need another white bitch here, tryna colonize the sound!"}
I turned my head. On screen was a rapper who looked like a committee-designed villain from a bad hip-hop biopic. He wore enough gold chains to anchor a small yacht and was slouched so far back in his chair he was practically horizontal.
My old-Earth brain instantly cross-referenced him: he had the scowl of 50 Cent, the ridiculous glasses of Kanye, and the general vibe of every SoundCloud rapper who ever started a fight for clicks. His name flashed on the bottom third of the screen: YOUNG GANGSTAR.
Cassandra let out a soft, weary sigh. "Ah…. The weekly circus is in town."
I just watched, my expression neutral. 'This was… educational.'
Young Gangstar wasn't done. He leaned forward, jabbing a finger at the camera.
{"I'm deadass, man! If I see that pretty-boy ass on my block, it's on sight! You heard me! On sight! Hip-hop is a black thing! A black thing! It's ours! Nobody else can come in! And that song of his? 'HUMBLE'? Please. Ghostwritten. One hundred percent. Had to be a brother behind that. No way that lil' pale kid from Texas came up with that himself."}
The show's panel, a collection of what the chyron identified as influential figures in the industry—two female rappers, four men; two hailed as legendary lyricists, two as hit-making producers—all laughed and nodded along.
They were all chuckling, agreeing, egging him on. It was a pack mentality, a performative display of gatekeeping that felt both pathetic and strangely inevitable.
I just stared, taking a slow drink of my own soda. The fizz popped on my tongue, a sharp, sweet contrast to the bitter nonsense on the screen.
Cassandra saw me looking. "Don't let it get to you…. It's basically a rite of passage in this industry…. Especially here. Someone's always starting beef for no reason, trying to climb on someone else's shine. And the 'Hip-Hop is a black-only club' argument is their favorite, most tired talking point."
"But it's not true, right?" I asked, my voice calm. "Historically, I mean..."
"Not at all," she said, shaking her head.
"The genre's origins here, just like on your— I mean, from what I've read," she quickly corrected herself, "were always multicultural… A melting pot. It's just that in New USA, Black artists have consistently been the most innovative and dominant force within it…. So, some people mistake dominance for ownership."
Sunday, I thought, the communication instant and silent within the confines of my own mind. Confirm.
A responsive, soothing chime only I could hear echoed in my head. "Query confirmed. Cassandra's assessment is 97.3% accurate. While the foundational elements of hip-hop on this Earth share a parallel multicultural genesis with your previous world, its commercial and cultural ascendancy in this iteration of North America was indeed overwhelmingly driven by Black American artists. The resulting narrative of sole ownership is a socio-cultural oversimplification, but a prevalent one in certain geographic and industrial circles, such as the one currently being displayed."
Thanks, Sunday. I shrugged externally, absorbing the information.
So, a slightly different path, but leading to the same old petty tribalism. Some things truly were universal constants.
On the screen, another figure decided to enter the fray. This one was older, bulkier, simmering with a quiet, terrifying menace that Young Gangstar's performative anger couldn't hope to match.
His name flashed on screen: SUGAR NIGHT.
'He looked… well, he looked exactly like Suge Knight if Suge Knight had been drawn by a cartoonist who specialized in villainous mob bosses. He didn't shout. He spoke low, his voice a gravelly rumble that demanded the room's silence.
{"He's here… In my city,"} Sugar Night said, his eyes like dark pools of oil.
{"And he ain't paid his respects. L.A. is Bad Dick Records ground. Always has been. You wanna play in our sandbox, boy? There's a toll. A song. A featuring. A writing credit. Or just straight cash. You understand what I'm sayin'? It's just good business. The right thing to do."}
The threat was so blatant, so cartoonishly evil, that I couldn't help it. A soft chuckle escaped my lips. It was just so… obvious.
Cassandra looked from the screen to me, her head tilted. "You're laughing? That man is not someone you laugh at, Sael…. His reputation is… quite serious."
"I'm sure it is," I said, the smile still on my face. I took another sip of my drink, the cold liquid soothing.
"But he's operating a protection racket from the 1990s... I'm building an empire from the 2050s. He's threatening me over regional turf on a television show…. My 'turf' is the global digital stratosphere. We're not even playing the same game, let alone on the same field."
I gestured with the can towards the VR rig. "He's talking about his 'ground.' I can create a million different grounds before lunchtime…. He wants a toll for L.A.? I don't need to be in L.A. I just am in L.A. There's a difference."
I took a sip of my own drink—something carbonated and aggressively blue—and let the fizz pop and crackle on my tongue before swallowing. On screen, a guy with enough platinum chains to anchor a small yacht was finishing a verse that was mostly about the various makes and models of his alleged sexual partners.
Inwardly, I mused, 'I thought that the hip hop culture here wasn't that different from on Earth.'
It had the same swagger, the same obsession with wealth and status, the same intricate verbal gymnastics. The beats were fire, a chaotic symphony of distorted 808s and synth lines that sounded like dying robots. But there was an edge to it, a rawness that felt less like performance and more like a live wire dangling over a puddle.
"It's more intense, though, isn't it?" I said, turning to Cassandra.
She nodded, her eyes not leaving the screen where another rapper was now posturing. "It's the gang connections. They're not even subtext; it's the whole text…. that guy?" She pointed a manicured finger at a man lurking in the background of the cypher, his face mostly shadowed by a hoodie despite the studio lights. "Sugar Night… Is the CEO of Big Dick Records."
I snorted into my blue drink. "They really went with that name, huh? Subtle."
"Not their strong suit, but they're proud of it…" Cassandra deadpanned.
"Big Dick Records is notoriously connected to the LA gang, The RED… One of the two predominantly Black gangs in New USA…. Their reputation is… the worst. Sugar Night is a gangster producer; He doesn't just sign artists; he acquires assets… Using all sort of underhand tactics, Threats, intimidation, leveraging family—it's all part of the business model for his benefit."
I leaned back, the expensive leather of the sofa sighing under my weight. "So, they're untouchable?"
Cassandra finally looked at me, a wry smile on her lips. "These people got connections and money; hence they can do this…. Or at least, that's the image they sell."
Ah, image. The currency of this world and my last one. I decided to do a quick fact-check. In my head, I reached out. 'Sunday. Run a discreet background. Big Dick Records. Sugar Night. Actual connections, not perceived ones.'
The response from my resident AI system was instantaneous, a calm, gender-neutral voice that only I could hear, like a thought that wasn't quite my own.
«Accessing public and shielded corporate records. Cross-referencing with law enforcement databases... Completed. Analysis: Their influence is primarily financial. They have surface-level connections to low-level precinct officers, facilitated through routine payoffs. The rest is lobbying and legal intimidation funded by their music revenue. No deep-state or high-level law enforcement ties are evident. Their power is a facade supported by capital and reputation.»
I couldn't help but let out a soft chuckle, earning a curious glance from Cassandra.
"Something funny?" she asked.
I shrugged again, a lazy, dismissive gesture. "Just thinking it's all a bit pathetic. So, it's nothing to really worry about, then. Just a lot of noise."
"Don't underestimate noise," Cassandra warned, though she seemed relieved by my calm.
"The entire hip-hop industry here is laden with gang elements. It's an ecosystem of its own…. Filled with backstabbing, paranoia, and an enormous, almost pathological obsession with wealth. The flexing, the girls... it's not just part of the culture; it is the culture."
That piqued my interest. "And the government just lets this happen? This seems like a recipe for... well, a lot of dead rappers."
"It's regulated, but not really," she explained, shifting to face me more directly.
"They turn a blind eye until a beef or conflict gets too out of hand…. Bullets start flying in public, a high-profile artist vanishes, that sort of thing. Only then does the government step in. And when that time comes," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "it's hilarious…. All these gangster tough guys cease their shit immediately. They become meek, proper, and start giving interviews about peace and unity. It's the most transparent act you'll ever see."
I shook my head, a dry laugh escaping me. "Incredible. And what about all the…" I gestured vaguely at the screen where a music video had now started, featuring a dizzying number of women in minimalist clothing. "...sexual stuff? I assume it's even more liberal."
"Liberal isn't the word," Cassandra said, her nose wrinkling slightly in distaste. "It's worse… It's an expectation…. For a male artist to be acknowledged as 'real,' he must have dozens of hoes around him at all times…. An entourage of willing participants."
"Willingly?" I asked, skeptical. This world was hypersexualized, thanks to the GMRD mandates and norms, but this sounded extreme.
"Shockingly, yes…. To many of these girls, becoming a baby mama to a famous rapper is the ultimate goal. A life goal... It guarantees them a share of that wealth, a sliver of that status."
My eyebrows threatened to disappear into my hairline. "You're kidding me."
"I wish I was," she sighed.
"And it goes further. …These girls are willingly exchanged…. An artist giving his 'girls' to another artist as a sign of respect or as a payment for a feature is common… It's fairly normal."
I just stared at her. The concept was so alien, so degrading, that it short-circuited my otaku brain for a second. "But... that's like... a modern-day slave trade."
Cassandra nodded grimly. "But entirely legal…. Because it's all 'consensual adult transaction.' It's a loophole big enough to drive a limousine full of groupies through…. And before you ask, yes, even the female rappers are part of it…. It's like I said, the ecosystem."
My eye widened. I took another long drag of my blue drink, the sugary liquid doing little to wash away the bitter taste that revelation left.
"Well," I finally said, letting out a long breath.
"It is what it is, I guess." A profoundly useless thing to say, but it was all I had. Some cultures you just can't fix, you can only avoid, or take part in.
Cassandra studied me for a long moment, her sharp businesswoman's eyes missing nothing. "So, after seeing all this, does it make you want to get into hip hop fully? You've got the viral success with your Sael VT channel. A well-placed 'diss tracks' and you could be right in the thick of it."
I laughed, a genuine, hearty sound that felt good. "Not a chance in hell. Their thing is way too intense for me. All that posturing and pretending? I'd get exhausted by lunchtime. I'd rather they just keep me out of their shit." I set my drink down on a coaster with a quiet click.
"I'll release my own music, but it'll be my own thing… I don't care about their rules, their feuds, or their weird groupie economy. I'm just here to create good music… And that's it."
She laughed, the sound warm and approving. "That is what I thought you'd say. I find the whole artist act around here to be too much as well... It's all so... performative."
"Exactly," I agreed.
"Whatever rules they have don't apply to me, and I have zero interest in obeying them…. I'm playing a completely different game." I paused, my tone shifting from casually dismissive to calmly definitive.
"And if any of them—Sugar Night or anyone else—decide to step out of line and come at me or my studio because of it, well... I won't just post an angry tweet."
Cassandra leaned forward, intrigued. "Oh? And how would the great Sael VT, retaliate?"
I met her gaze, my expression neutral but my eyes dead serious. "Unlike them, who have street gangs, I have a private security force comprised of ex-military mercenaries on retainer…. And Meteor Studio isn't some indie label they can mess with… We're a corporation with legal powerhouses like Kate on speed dial… We don't fight in alleys; we fight in courtrooms and boardrooms, and we have the capital to bankrupt anyone stupid enough to start a fight. And if it somehow did go to the alley..." I shrugged.
"...my ladies have better guns."
The room was silent for a moment, save for the muted sounds of flexing and autotune from the holographic screen. Cassandra's playful smirk had vanished, replaced by a look of serious contemplation. The casualness with which I stated it clearly drove the point home far more effectively than any gangster bravado ever could.
She finally nodded, her business persona back in place. "Kinda extreme…. But, Alright. Point taken… But," she added, holding up a finger,
"Before anything even has a chance to get worse, before you deploy your mercenary army, you tell me first... Let me see if I can handle it with a phone call. PR is cheaper than bullets."
I gave her a small, appreciative smile. "Deal."
***********************
"CLICK THUD!"
The heavy hotel room door clicked shut behind Cassandra, the sound a definitive period at the end of our brief, frustrated conversation. The silence she left in her wake was somehow louder than the blaring hip-hop award shows we'd just been watching.
I was alone again, and the lingering, pixelated ghost of Sugar Night's smug face on the black screen of the wall-mounted TV. Annoyed me a little bit.
"Hah~" I let out a long breath I didn't realize I'd been holding, the air hissing through the microfilters of my signature Sael VT mask, which was still snug against the lower half of my face. The mask was a part of me now, a sci-fi-looking piece of black tech that served as both a brand identifier and a much-needed barrier against the ever-present smog of this world atmosphere.
It also conveniently hid my expressions, which was a bonus when the face of a seventeen-year-old body, threatened to betray my actual thoughts with an ill-timed smirk or scowl. Also, had to always wears it so that I can get used to wearing them.
My thoughts drifted back to the absurd state of this world's music scene. It was a bizarre funhouse mirror reflection of the one I'd left behind. Hip-hop here was a fortress, and the gatekeepers were almost exclusively Black Americans.
That part, honestly, I thought was pretty cool; it felt like a purer, more undiluted preservation of the culture's roots. There were exceptions, of course—a Heminem here, a Wayne East there—but they were the outliers who had to work ten times as hard to earn their stripes.
The part that really defined the culture, though, the part that was so flagrantly out in the open it still sometimes made my old-world sensibilities do a double-take, was the sex. This wasn't the subtle, behind-closed-doors, hint-dropping sexuality of my previous life. This was a full-throated, unapologetic, celebration of the act, no censorship at all.
And personally? I was a big fan. The freedom of it, the sheer lack of puritanical guilt, was liberating. Especially the part where artists were not just allowed but expected to have and control their… entourages. Their groupies, the bitches, sluts and baby momma. It was an acknowledged part of the business model; it is very much a part of the culture.
Curiosity got the better of me. I snatched the remote off the plush armchair and flicked the TV back on, navigating to the music video channels. I found what I was looking for: Young Gangstar's latest, "Stacks and Snatch." I'd heard the song on the charts—a repetitive, lazy beat with autotuned boasts about wealth and sexual prowess. Mediocre at best.
The music video, however, was another story entirely. It wasn't suggestive. It wasn't implicit. It was a literal, high-budget documentary of coitus.
There was no metaphor. The "stacks" were piles of cash he was literally throwing at the camera. The "snatch" was… well, it was exactly what it sounded like, a goddamn pussy, that seems to always be wet and sticky for some reason.
The camera lingered, glorified, and worshiped the act itself. He was with one woman fucking them hard, then two, then three, a rotating carousel of enthusiastic participants right there in the mansion pool, on the hood of a gold-plated sports car, on a throne made of what looked like solid ivory, and each time with a different woman, he was fucking them like animals.
I chuckled to myself, shaking my head. "Well, that's one way to sell records."
And then the camera, in its unflinching gaze, decided to give a particularly generous slow-motion shot of Mr. Gangstar himself. My eyebrows shot up so high they probably brushed against the rim of my mask. "Holy shit," I muttered to the empty room. "The man is packing a certified third leg… No wonder, he was famous…"
It all clicked into place. His music was forgettable, his personality seemed to be a cardboard cutout of every gangster cliché ever conceived, but his… equipment… was above average. That was the attraction. That was the brand, that made everyone out there accepted him, despite his stupid act and bragging excessively for no particular reason.
My research sessions with Sunday had confirmed it. More or less every single top-tier rapper in the industry was the same. Their musical talent was often secondary, a convenient vehicle to showcase their primary appeal: raw, unadulterated sexual magnetism. Their art was a side hustle; their anatomy was the main event, the main selling point of their career.
A thought bubbled up, and I muttered it aloud, my voice the only sound in the spacious suite.
"Hmmm…. It's surprisingly barren... very… empty,"
I wasn't talking about the landscape outside my smoggy window. I was talking about the artistic genealogy of this world hip-hop.
So many of the giants from my old world were just… absent. No Tupac, no Biggie, no Jay-Z, no Kendrick. The foundational pillars, the poets and the prophets, they'd never existed here. Heminem and Wayne East were the only ones who had any semblance of the technical skill and lyrical complexity I remembered. The entire culture felt stunted, like a tree that had grown thick and gaudy with leaves but had no real roots to speak of.
The only thing that felt familiar was the superficial bravado—the flaunting of wealth, the flexing of power, the gangster posturing. And the female rappers? Their style was just a mirror image of the men, overtly rapping about their love for, and the specific qualities of, large dick. It was all id, no superego. They kept going on and on, how they can ride a big dick really good, and their pussy were so tight that they can get any man they wanted, or woman.
Looking at this, A slow, confident smile spread across my face underneath the mask. This wasn't a challenge; it was an invitation. A wide-open goal for me. The bar was on the floor; the difficulty was on the easy level.
I could easily dominate this industry without even breaking a sweat. If I didn't feel like rapping myself, I could easily pluck a few talented kids off the street, feed them a couple of legendary bars from my old world, and build an empire. I had the entire history of Earth's hip-hop in my head. It was the ultimate cheat code. Any music that I 'made' even the worst one can become the greatest hip hop track ever created here.
A wave of boredom washed over me. The immediate fires at Meteor Studio were put out. Silent Hill: First Fear was a smash hit, the Sael VT channel was growing exponentially, and the plans for Milie Kyelish and the Warhammer 40K VR game were already bombing the gaming community with the good word of the emperor. In terms of effectiveness and workability, everything I made, everything that comes from my hand is a guaranteed hit.
'My work here, for today, was done... I need to stretch out a little bit...'
I stretched, my joints popping pleasantly, and decided a shower was in order. The hot water was a blessing, pounding the tension from my shoulders. Afterward, wrapped in a plush hotel robe, I called home. The familiar face of my mom, Cathy, filled the screen of my comm, her smile a immediate comfort.
"Sael, honey! How's the big city treating my superstar?" she asked, her voice warm.
"It's treating me to a lot of pissed-off rappers and bad music, Mom," I said with a laugh, giving her the PG version of my day. We talked for a while, her presence a grounding wire to reality.
Everyone back home was understanding, knowing that building Meteor Studio into a proper business empire would keep me in Hollywood for a while. It was a small price to pay for our collective safety and future, everyone knows that I am here for work, and they knew from my style. That I would be working, most of the time, that is just how I am as a person.
******************
After the call, a new craving announced itself with the subtlety of a gunshot: pizza. Greasy, cheesy, glorious pizza. Ramona, was on her way back to Pussyville, So, I got two other members of my security detail were stationed outside my door.
I changed into something simple—a soft, black graphic tee, a pair of well-worn jeans, and my trusty armored sneakers. I snapped my Sael VT signature mask back into place. The look was complete: casually invincible.
I informed Kate and Cassandra via text that I was heading out for lunch.
The response from Kate was immediate and typical: "Don't start a war with Bad Dick Records before dessert." I chuckled.
Stepping out of the hotel's climate-controlled bubble was like walking into a warm, wet towel. The air tasted of ozone and exhaust. Paparazzi lurked across the street like vultures, their long-lens cameras clicking away.
'They never got tired, huh…' I thought as I looked at the paparazzi folks that by now, not really hiding their presence anymore.
But thankfully, none of them dared cross the street. My two security escorts, whose names were Cleo and Marca, saw to that. They didn't need to brandish the compact SMGs discreetly holstered under their jackets; their posture, their cold, professional gazes, were deterrent enough. They were a moving wall of muscle and implied violence, and they really will do it if pushed.
I found a decent-looking pizza joint a few blocks down, the smell of baking dough and tomatoes cutting through the city smog. I bought two large boxes—one pepperoni and one absurdly loaded meat-lover's monstrosity. The boxes were warm in my hands, a comforting heat.
I decided to walk back, enjoying the simple, greasy mission. I was just navigating a crack in the sidewalk, balancing my precious cargo, when a voice cut through the city's dull roar.
"Hey! Sael VT!"
"Who is it?" I turned.
Idling at the curb was a Rolls Royce Cullinan so pristine it looked like it'd been delivered from the factory five minutes ago. The blacked-out rear window was down, and leaning out was none other than Heminem himself, his platinum blonde hair unmistakable. Next to him in the driver's seat was his manager, a sharp-faced man in a suit.
I walked over, my security falling into a loose perimeter around me. "What's up, man?" I asked, my voice slightly muffled by the mask.
Heminem grinned, holding up his phone. On the screen was a social media feed, and right at the top was a picture of me leaving the hotel, my mask and security detail making me look like a rogue android.
"Saw you were in the neighborhood…. The whole world sees you're in the neighborhood. You're trending just for taking a walk, man. It's nuts."
I shrugged. "Comes with the territory. What's going on?"
"I got it," he said, his excitement palpable. "The track you gave me. It's done…. I wanted you to be the first to hear it."
My interest was piqued. I'd provided him with the instrumental track—a dark, quirky beat I'd pulled from the deepest archives of my memory—but nothing else. No lyrics or concept at all, it was a test for him by me, and also, I kinda wanted to see if this world Eminem were talented as my old world.
"Sure, let's hear it," I said casually. Without a second thought, I placed the two warm pizza boxes right on the pristine, black roof of his quarter-million-dollar SUV. His manager's eye twitched almost imperceptibly. Heminem didn't seem to care; he was too amped up. He handed me one end of a set of earphones, plugging the other into his own ear.
He hit play on his phone.
A familiar, wobbly bassline started. Then a cool, detached voice kicked in.
"My name is… My name is Slim Shad—"
The second I heard that iconic, stuttering vocal hook, a wide, unreserved smile broke out across my face. Thank God for the mask.
'Well, would you look at that,' I thought, the sounds of my old-world flooding into my ears.
Just as I'd anticipated. I'd only given him the track, the empty vessel. He'd not only found the right cadence and flow, he'd filled it with his own version of the same chaotic, self-deprecating energy. He'd completed the puzzle himself.
The song blasted on, a piece of home on a polluted street, and for a moment, surrounded by bodyguards and pizza, sitting on the roof of a luxury car, I felt the bizarre, wonderful impossibility of my life here, for the first time I saw a man similar to the face I knew back in my old life, saying the familiar thing using the familiar medium. And it was exciting and fulfilling as heck, especially knowing that I have a part in their discovery and growth.