The Battle

The warehouse throbbed with energy. Bodies packed tight between stacks of shipping crates, the air thick with smoke and anticipation. Somewhere in my other timeline, this building would become our first professional studio. But tonight, it was just another underground beat battle in the Bronx.

Rico Martinez stood on a makeshift platform, gold chain catching the sparse light. "Aight, y'all know the rules! Sixty seconds to shock the crowd. Winner takes home five hundred and a chance to battle again next week."

I set up my equipment near the back, watching the familiar faces in the crowd. Future producers, label executives, artists – all of them unknown tonight, hungry for their shot. Derek was here too, nervously clutching his own MPC.

Four producers went before me. Their beats were exactly as I remembered – heavy on samples, light on innovation. The crowd bobbed half-heartedly. In 2035, these same patterns would be considered classic, taught in our music academies. But tonight, they were just another attempt to stand out.

"Next up, Marcus Johnson!"

Rico's voice carried over the murmur of the crowd. I stepped up to the platform, MPC in hand. My heart shouldn't have been racing – I'd done this before, had performed for stadiums, had shaped the future of music. But this moment... this was where it all began.

The first pad hit launched the beat. James Brown's voice, chopped and twisted in ways that wouldn't become common for years. The bass dropped, and I watched Rico's eyebrows raise. By the thirty-second mark, the warehouse was moving, really moving. I triggered the switch-up – that subtle 2015 progression hidden beneath layers of 2002 production.

Time stretched like taffy. In one reality, I was a fifty-year-old music mogul, controlling an empire from a penthouse office. In another, I was a seventeen-year-old kid from the Bronx, watching a crowd realize something different was happening.

The beat faded. Silence held for one heartbeat, two.

Then the warehouse erupted.

Rico pushed through the crowd, eyes locked on my MPC. "Yo, where'd that come from? Never heard anything like that."

"Been practicing," I said, the understatement of two lifetimes.

"Five hundred's yours," he said, peeling bills from a thick roll. "But forget next week's battle. I got some people you need to meet. Industry people."

I nodded, remembering exactly who those people were and what they'd become. "I'm ready."

Rico grinned, not knowing he was looking at his future business partner, the man who'd help him trade warehouse battles for boardroom empires. "Tomorrow. My studio. Bring more heat like that."

As the next producer set up, I packed my equipment, mind already racing ahead. Tomorrow would be the real test – playing the right beats for the right people without revealing too much. The future was changing, one carefully calculated step at a time.

Derek caught up with me outside. "Bro, that was insane! You gotta show me how you did that thing with the samples."

I looked at my old friend, remembering headlines that hadn't happened yet. "Actually, I've got some ideas I want to run by you. Want to hit the studio this weekend?"

The first piece moved into place. The game was on.