Sellouts

Story by Ristband cofounder Roman Rappak.

“Im sick of it” said Skreeka, for the third time that evening.

“They have the budgets and processing power to simulate anything… but they churn out the same old crap!”

“Yeah... You said” said Tudge, as they stomped up Universal Street towards Spotify BLVD, faces turned down from the rain, navigating as much by muscle memory as the neon reflections in puddles.

Skreeka had a point though... the Western Central Hub had got much worse in recent seasons. All 90 foot Kanye Wests and Kurt Cobains, twitching and glitching over a place that reeked of nostalgia and desperation.

“They told us it would democratise music … And instead we got… THIS” he shouted, indicating to a badly animated 20ft Hendrix high above them.

“Yeah you said” repeated Tudge. He knew better than to engage with Skreeka (who’s real name was Gavin) when he was in this mood, or to point out that Skreeka/Gavin’s mum had paid for the season pass and avatar add-ons that had allowed them to access this world in the first place.

“...So what’s so special about this guy anyway?” asked Skreeka as they made their way towards the station.

“He’s worked on big tours. One of them even made it to the Central Hub”

“But did he code the shows?” Asked Skreeka, in a tone he hoped projected the worldly nonchalance of an Elite Performer.

“Look I don't know if he did them himself or not, lets just see if you guys even get on.”

Skreeka followed his manager at a distance he decided was “chill”, but snapped on the tracker in his HUD to avoid a repeat of last week’s incident, when they had got seperated, and some girls had laughed when he had been called over the in-game speakers, like a lost child in a supermarket.

Tudge swiped his wrist across the scanner: two tickets on his company account. Small management companies like his tended to avoid the Western Central Hub as a rule. The majors and streaming giants had the whole thing sewn up in the early days of virtual concerts, selling digital shovels to every artist hoping to cash in on the music metaverse goldrush. But if you wanted to find the best coders it was the only place you could go. Good coders didn’t waste their time on emerging artists, and a concert with bad UX design and poor interaction was the worst thing a virtual concert could be: a “Passive Experience”. The explosion of hybrid shows had killed the old way of doing things as quickly as video had killed the radio star.

They stood on the platform waiting for the train that would take them from the Outer Sectors to Middle Town.

“Did his profile say he takes a cut on merch?” Asked Skreeka, who had been stung on this before

“This is us” came the reply.

The train doors hissed open and the two of them slumped down next to a window so they could get a good view of the Rim. Tudge never got bored of seeing it, and as the train orbited the venues and clubs that made up Middle Town, he was struck by how a virtual place could feel so familiar. He had started his career down in those tiny venues, forging a name for himself through hard work and blind luck.

The train was suddenly filled with the scent of Orchids as they plunged past the Apple Music Stadium, flowers sprouting on every surface and blossoming into individual hi res buds, each one with the face of Cardi B singing the hook of her new single “FMC”

What’s our coder’s name anyway?” said Skreeka over the noise.

“Its Derek Petterson.. and hes not “our coder” yet”

An hour later they were being led to Petterson’s office by one of his managers, who’s avatar (a seven foot viking with fluorescent nose rings) clipped against the arched ceilings that led to Petterson’s main office.

“Its a super busy time for him”said the viking “We’ve been really careful not to overload his schedule. You have the track ready to play him right? He has a 3 o'clock”

Forty seconds later they were sitting in front of the coder, whose avatar was a low-poly rendition of a character from the show “Silicon Valley”.

Skreeka gingerly dragged the audio icon from his chest and left it hovering in the air between them, until Petterson snatched it and slammed it into the table.

The coder didn't even listen to the whole track. He didn't even open his eyes.

“This is the best thing I’ve heard in nearly two years. Theres only one thing that will work for this.”

He said quietly

“Its a blueprint I built called Traumemory.”

“Will it work with the track?” asked Skreeka

“Will it work?” answered Derek, swiping the icons like an emperor dismissing a servant.

It was then that the music, the visuals, code and haptics hit Tudge in the face like a tidal wave. Everything went black as the first line of the lyrics rung out:

“You could have never known me”

And Tudge was back in school... the scent of crayons and wet concrete, surrounded by people, until a fist swiped across his vision, spinning him into the eyes of a young boy in a forest, holding hands, a sense of excitement forcing his eyes closed, opening just in time for him to see that same boy, older now, driving a car, grasping at seatbelts just in time to realise only one of them was wearing one.

Double decker bus into car, ten ton truck into skull... flipping them over and over, until they landed on the roof, gently spinning as the final synths died away, with Tudge just able to make himself out in a drone shot high over Honour Oak Crematorium-

“To die by your side”

 ...and suddenly he was back in the office, with Derek explaining to the stunned duo:

“Data scraping like this isn’t new, machine learning ties into the audience’s memories … things they posted, anything I can find online, into a unique narrative. Its completely personalised and…”

“Traumatic!” cried Skreeka, unable to contain his excitement.

“Yes! And by the way I take a cut on merch and its non-negotiable” said the coder.

The End