Chapter 59: Christmas Eve in the Laboratory
Thursday, December 24, 2015 (Morning)
The Christmas Eve morning sun came through the living room windows, but it didn't illuminate a Christmas tree or wrapped gifts.
It illuminated a tangle of black cables, speaker towers, and equipment boxes.
Michael's house didn't look like a home on the eve of a holiday. It looked like a tactical operations bunker. Or, as he liked to call it, "The Laboratory".
Michael stood in the center of the rug, microphone in hand. He felt tense, like a compressed spring. He had been screaming, jumping, and giving his all in these rehearsals for days. His instinct urged him to do it one more time.
But T-Roc raised a hand from behind his control table, stopping the music before it started.
"Woah, woah, easy, tiger," said the DJ, adjusting his cap. His voice was raspy from morning coffee. "Take it down a notch."
Michael looked at him, confused. "What's wrong? Is the audio bad?"
"The audio is fine. You are the problem," said T-Roc, pointing to his throat. "You've been screaming for three days like you're being killed. If you keep this up today, tomorrow you won't have a voice to greet your grandmother, and on Saturday you're going to sound like a voiceless duck on stage."
Michael touched his neck. He was right. He felt a slight itch, a warning from his vocal cords.
"Today is not an energy rehearsal," continued T-Roc, with the authority of a veteran who had seen too many rappers burn out before the show. "Today is a technical rehearsal. We are going to 'mark'. No screaming. No crazy jumps. Just positions, entrances, and exits."
"The handbrake, kid," concluded T-Roc. "Save the beast for Saturday."
Michael nodded. He understood the logic. It was discipline.
"Okay," said Michael. "Marking."
T-Roc pressed a button on his Pioneer controller. The intro to 'Star Shopping' began to play, soft and melancholic.
Michael raised the microphone. But instead of projecting his voice, instead of filling the room with his longing, he whispered.
'Wait right here... I'll be back in the mornin'...'
It was strange. Singing such an emotional song in a conversational tone, without force, felt unnatural. It was like acting in slow motion.
He moved across the imaginary stage, counting his steps. Three steps to the left. Pause. Look at the audience (at the empty wall).
Leo was lying on the floor, with the DSLR camera.
"This looks weird, Mike," he commented, adjusting the focus. "It looks like you're telling a secret."
"Shut up and record," whispered Michael, without breaking character halfway.
They moved on to 'Ghost Girl'. Michael practiced how to hold the microphone, how to move the cable so as not to trip, how to look at his friends' cameras without looking like he was posing.
It was a mental exercise. He went over the lyrics in his head, making sure every word was locked in his muscle memory, while his mouth barely moved.
Then came the difficult songs. 'Paris' and 'Look At Me!'.
The distorted beat of 'Paris' shook the room. Michael's instinct was to jump, scream, let the rage possess him. He had to physically fight against that impulse.
He stood still in the center, eyes closed, visualizing the chaos.
'Tell me what you know...'
He murmured, with the intensity of a monk praying.
Sam, who was recording with the VHS camera from a corner, laughed. "You look like you're trying not to shit your pants, dude."
Michael shot him a murderous look, but didn't break concentration. T-Roc cut the beat at the exact moment. Michael whispered the ad-lib. The beat came back in.
It was perfect. The timing was telepathic.
They went over the transitions again and again. The end of 'Drugs You Should Try It' fading into silence, and the abrupt start of 'Look At Me!'.
"That silence is too long," said Michael. "Cut it half a second."
"Done," said T-Roc, adjusting the start point in the software. They tested it again.
'...Chase the night away.'
Silence. Boom.
'Ayy, ayy, ayy!'
"Better," said Michael.
They spent the morning like that. Repeating minute details. Adjusting volumes. Testing the echo effects on the microphone to make sure there was no feedback when Michael got close to the monitors.
It was tedious, boring, and glamourless work. There was no adrenaline. There was no sweat.
But as they went through the setlist for the third time, Michael felt a different confidence. Not the manic confidence of adrenaline, but the cold confidence of preparation.
He knew exactly where he was going to be at every second of every song. He knew exactly how every transition sounded.
The show was no longer a terrifying unknown. It was a sequence of events that he controlled.
At one in the afternoon, they finished the last run-through of 'Boss'.
"Cut," said T-Roc, lowering the master fader.
Silence returned to the room.
Michael lowered the microphone. His voice was fresh. His legs were rested. But his mind was sharp as a razor.
"We're ready," said Michael.
T-Roc nodded, satisfied. "You're ready. Now, stop thinking about it. You have 48 hours to do nothing."
Michael looked at his friends, who were turning off the cameras.
"Do nothing," repeated Michael.
"I wish."
Tomorrow was Christmas. And at midnight, he was releasing 'Look At Me!'. Rest would have to wait.
Thursday, December 24, 2015 (Afternoon)
At two in the afternoon, hunger became a force they could no longer ignore. T-Roc turned off the Yamaha monitors with a definitive click. The silence that followed was sudden and heavy, broken only by the sound of stomachs growling.
"Lunch," decreed the DJ. "Or early dinner. Whatever you want to call it. If I don't eat something real in the next twenty minutes, I'm going to start eating the cables."
"I'll order," said Jake, taking out his phone. "The usual? Chinese?".
No one argued. On a normal day, they would have debated between pizza or burgers. But it was Christmas Eve. And by some unwritten rule of the universe, Chinese food was the official dinner of outcasts, loners, and workaholics on Christmas.
Thirty minutes later, the delivery guy arrived. He was a young kid who looked wide-eyed at the interior of the house: the lights, the speakers, the cameras. He probably thought they were shooting a porno or planning a heist. Michael gave him a generous tip so he wouldn't ask questions.
They sat on the living room floor, forming an irregular circle between microphone stands and equipment boxes. There was no table; the table was occupied by T-Roc's controller.
The smell of sweet and sour pork, fried rice, and soy sauce filled the room, replacing the smell of ozone and cold sweat.
Michael opened his box of white rice. He looked around.
Outside, the world was celebrating. Families were gathering. Christmas trees were lit. People were pretending to like each other, exchanging gifts wrapped in shiny paper, drinking eggnog.
And here they were.
Five teenagers and a thirty-year-old mercenary DJ, sitting on the floor of an almost empty rented house in the suburbs, eating noodles with plastic chopsticks.
Michael felt a sharp pang in his chest.
He thought of Christmas 2024. Of his mother making the turkey, burning it a little as always. Of his father complaining about having to assemble the artificial tree. Of the warmth. Of the safety.
That world was dead. Those people, their versions from this universe, were buried.
He looked down at his food, feeling his throat close up. The loneliness of the date, which he had managed to keep at bay with work, threatened to overflow.
"Hey," said T-Roc, breaking the silence while chewing a spring roll. "This is depressing. And I love it."
Leo, who was struggling with a soy sauce packet, looked up. "Depressing?"
"Look at us," said T-Roc, pointing at the group with his plastic fork. "It's Christmas Eve. I could be with my ex-wife and my in-laws, listening to screaming. You guys could be... I don't know, doing rich kid stuff in the suburbs."
T-Roc swallowed his food and took a swig of his soda.
"But we're here," he continued, his raspy voice acquiring an almost philosophical tone. "Locked in a bunker, preparing for war. This is real. Most people are pretending to be happy today. We are building something."
T-Roc's words, unexpectedly deep for a guy who charged by the hour, changed the atmosphere.
Jake smiled, mouth full. "He's right. This is better than being at my aunt's house listening to my cousin brag about his grades."
"My mom wanted me to go to church," muttered Nate, stabbing a piece of chicken. "I told her I had work."
"And you do," said Michael, snapping out of his melancholy. "You're the head of security and lead cameraman."
Sam, who was recording all this with the VHS camera resting on his knee, smiled. "Documenting the Last Supper... Kung Pao version."
Michael looked at his friends. Really looked at them.
Jake, the party guy who had bet his savings on him without hesitation. The one who dragged him out of his cave when the darkness became too dense.
Leo, the cynical artist who had given him the aesthetic, who understood his vision before Michael could explain it.
Sam, the loyal geek, always ready with a joke or an HDMI cable, the one who captured every moment.
Nate, the silent giant, the rock who was always there, protecting them in his own way.
And T-Roc, the stranger who had become his technical mentor.
He realized he wasn't alone. He had lost his blood family, yes. And that would always hurt. But he had found something else.
He had found a tribe. A chosen family, united not by DNA, but by a shared frequency, by music, by ambition, and by being, fundamentally, misfits.
Jake put his food box on the floor. He wiped his hands on his pants and raised his can of Coke.
"Hey," said Jake, his voice getting a little louder, a little more theatrical. "I want to propose a toast. Even if it's with warm soda."
Everyone raised their cans and water bottles.
"To Mike," started Jake, and Michael opened his mouth to protest, but Jake silenced him with a look.
"Shut up, Zombie. To Mike. Because a few months ago, we were all... I don't know, floating. I only thought about football and parties. Leo hated everything. Sam lived on the internet. Nate... well, Nate was Nate."
Jake looked around the circle.
"And now we're here. We have a purpose. We have a mission. We're going to go to that damn Observatory on Saturday and we're going to show everyone who we are."
Jake raised the can higher.
"To the best Christmas present," he said, smiling. "It's not a bike. It's watching Mike destroy a stage in front of a thousand people. And knowing that we helped build the bomb."
"Cheers," said Leo.
"Cheers," said Sam and Nate in unison.
"Cheers," said T-Roc, clinking his water bottle.
Michael raised his own can. He felt a warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with the spicy food.
"Cheers," whispered Michael.
They drank. The sound of cans opening and liquid going down was the only noise for a moment.
Michael looked around. The room was messy. It smelled of Chinese food. It was far from the perfect Christmas of his memory.
But in that moment, surrounded by cables and these strange boys who believed in him, Michael felt strangely at peace.
He didn't need a tree. He didn't need gifts. He had this. And in two days, he would have the world.
"Okay," said Michael, putting his can on the floor with a decided thud. The melancholy was gone, replaced by the fire of work.
"Food's over," he announced, standing up. "We have a show to prepare. T-Roc, I want to go over the 'Paris' transition again. The cut was a millisecond slow."
T-Roc smiled, putting on his cap. "Aye aye, boss. Let's get to work."
The chosen family stood up. Christmas dinner was over. The final rehearsal was about to begin.
Thursday, December 24, 2015 (Sunset)
The sun began to set, tinting the California sky a winter purple. Inside the house, natural light faded, leaving the space dominated by the artificial glow of the equipment.
The blue and red LEDs of T-Roc's controller, the green lights of the monitors, and the white glare of the MacBook screen created an almost submarine atmosphere.
The technical rehearsal was over. They had gone over the setlist three times. T-Roc was satisfied with the transitions. Michael felt secure with his entries.
But before anyone could disconnect a single cable, Michael raised his hand.
"Wait," he said, his voice cutting through the hum of the amplifiers. "We're not done. The most important thing is missing."
He took his phone out of his pocket. He looked at the black screen for a second. He knew the outside world was in holiday mode. Family dinners, gifts, peace and love.
And he knew that was the perfect moment to interrupt the regular programming.
"Leo," called Michael. "Grab the camera. The good one. The DSLR."
Leo, who was putting away his sketchbook, stopped. "What do you have in mind? A group Christmas photo?"
"No," said Michael, his face serious under the neon lights. "I want the world to see this. I want them to see where we are while they're opening presents."
He walked to the control table, standing next to T-Roc.
"I want a photo," instructed Michael. "Not a pose. I want it to look like we're in the middle of an operation. Show the equipment, the cables, the chaos."
Leo nodded, understanding the aesthetic instantly. He took out the Canon. Adjusted the ISO for low light.
"Stand there," directed Leo. "T-Roc, put your hands on the decks as if you were mixing. Sam, Nate, stay in the background, blurry, moving things."
Michael positioned himself behind the microphone, head down, one hand adjusting the stand, the other holding a water bottle. He didn't look at the camera. He looked at the floor, concentrated.
"Light," requested Leo.
Sam turned on the halogen work lamp, but pointed it at the ceiling, creating a diffuse and dramatic light that cast long shadows over Michael's face.
The shutter clicked. One, two, three times.
"Got it," said Leo, checking the small LCD screen.
Michael approached. The photo was perfect. It was dark, grainy, and full of atmosphere. It looked professional, but raw. It looked like the backstage of a band that was about to eat the world.
"Send it to me," said Michael.
A minute later, the photo was on his phone. Michael opened Instagram. His fingers moved fast. He didn't need to think much. The image spoke for itself.
He uploaded the photo. The contrast between the darkness of his "laboratory" and the bright, happy Christmas photos filling his feed was brutal. It was a statement.
He wrote the caption.
"Christmas Eve in the lab. Preparing for war for Saturday at The Observatory."
But that wasn't all. He had one more bomb to drop. The song he had kept for a week.
He added a second line, separated by spaces for drama.
"And only 24H until 'LOOK AT ME' drops. 🎁💀"
He posted the photo.
He did the same on Twitter, adding the Spotify and Apple Music pre-save link.
The reaction was immediate.
As T-Roc started coiling the XLR cables, Michael's phone lit up. Notifications started falling like rain.
"TOMORROW?! ON CHRISTMAS?!" "The Trap Grinch has arrived." "That pic is hard. You look ready." "Forget the gifts, I want that song."
Michael watched the numbers rise. The "anti-Christmas" strategy was working. While every other artist rested, he was working. And his fans respected him for it.
"It's done," said Michael, putting away the phone. "The world knows we're coming."
He looked at his team. They were tired, hungry again, and wanted to go home. But there was a shine in their eyes. They knew they were part of something.
"Good job today," said Michael. "Now, let's get out of here. You have families who are probably wondering why you smell like Chinese food and success."
T-Roc let out a husky laugh. "Merry Christmas, boss. See you on stage."
Thursday, December 24, 2015 (Night)
The camera flash went out. The photo was uploaded. The world had been warned.
"Alright, people," said T-Roc, unplugging his laptop with a fluid motion. "My work here is done for today. Tomorrow I rest. Saturday, war."
The DJ packed his essential gear into his case. "Rest your voice, kid," he told Michael on his way out. "You're going to need it."
One by one, the friends said goodbye.
Sam yawned, hugging his PS4. "Merry Christmas, I guess. See you at the show."
Nate punched Michael on the shoulder, a silent gesture of support. Leo adjusted his backpack. "The photo turned out great. You're gonna break the internet tomorrow."
Jake was the last to leave. He stopped at the door, looking at Michael.
"Hey," said Jake, unusually serious. "Thanks for the pizza. And for... you know. Not leaving me alone today."
"Same here," said Michael. "Drive safe."
The door closed. The click of the deadbolt echoed in the empty house.
Michael stood in the hallway. The silence returned, heavy and absolute. The smell of Chinese food and cigarette smoke still floated in the air, ghosts of the energy that had filled the room minutes ago.
He started cleaning. Picked up the empty cardboard boxes. Straightened the cables. It was a methodical ritual, a way to lower the adrenaline.
When the room was in order, he went up to his studio.
His MacBook Pro screen was still on. In the browser, his distributor's page showed the status of 'Look At Me!'.
Status: SCHEDULED. Release Date: December 25, 2015 - 12:00 AM EST.
A few hours left.
He sat in his Herman Miller chair. Looked around. The Neumann, the monitors, the guitar. Everything was silent, waiting.
He realized this was the last night of tranquility.
Tomorrow, the world would receive 'Look At Me!'. The controversy, the hate, the love, the hype... everything would explode on Christmas.
And Saturday... Saturday was the trial by fire. The Observatory. A thousand people.
He felt a knot in his stomach, but it wasn't fear. It was the feeling of being at the top of a roller coaster, right before the drop.
He turned off the monitor. The room plunged into darkness.
"Merry Christmas, Michael," he whispered to the nothingness.
He got up and went to his room. Tomorrow would be a long day. He needed to sleep while the world was still silent. The war started at dawn.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
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