The BET Awards rehearsal space sprawled across a converted warehouse in Brooklyn, its industrial bones humming with the energy of a hundred performers, dancers, and technicians all orbiting around their respective stars. Three weeks had collapsed into three days, and the air crackled with that particular electricity that precedes either triumph or disaster.
I stood in the wings, watching my vision take shape on the massive stage. The set design had raised eyebrows among the producers – a complex array of LED panels and holographic scrims that wouldn't become industry standard for another decade. But L.A. Reid's backing carried the weight of gospel, and my recent track record had earned me the latitude to experiment.
Spinning lights and crystal dreams Nothing's ever what it seems Future echoes in my mind Leading all the lost to find
The lyrics played through the monitor system as the dancers worked through their marks. The choreography was deliberately anachronistic, blending styles that hadn't been invented yet with classical forms that would never go out of fashion. In my previous timeline, I'd watched these same movements evolve organically over years. Now I was introducing them fully formed, like a time traveler teaching cave men to forge steel.
"Marcus," Rico's voice carried a note of concern as he approached, tablet in hand. "Production team's asking about the light sequence during the bridge. They say it's impossible with current technology."
I smiled, remembering how I'd solved this particular problem in 2015. "Tell them to check their inbox. I sent over some modifications to the standard rig. They just need to reverse the polarity on the—"
"I don't need the details," Rico cut in, but his eyes sparkled with that familiar mix of amusement and awe. "Just tell me it'll work."
"It'll work." I turned back to the stage where the dancers were running through the sequence again. "Trust me."
But trust was becoming a complicated currency. Each innovation I introduced sent ripples through the industry, and people were starting to notice. The whispers had evolved from "ahead of his time" to "impossible to predict." L.A. Reid's calculating gaze lingered longer at meetings, and music blogs had begun compiling lists of my "prophetic" production choices.
My phone vibrated – a message from Maria about the community center's first graduation ceremony. Attached was a photo of kids creating beats on the equipment we'd donated, their faces bright with the joy of discovery. Some anchors remained constant across timelines, and my mother's ability to find hope in chaos was one of them.
A commotion near the main entrance drew my attention. The energy in the room shifted like a compass finding magnetic north, and I knew before turning what I would see. Beyoncé had arrived for her rehearsal slot.
In my original timeline, our first meeting had been a chance encounter at a studio in 2012. Now, watching her glide through the crowd with the grace of inevitability, I felt time bending around us like light through a prism.
"Your slot doesn't overlap with hers," Rico said quietly, ever the guardian of my peculiar timeline dance. "But she specifically requested to see your rehearsal."
Of course she had. In any timeline, her artistic instincts were unerring. The curiosity that had drawn her to my work in 2012 was already active, accelerated by my careful orchestration of musical innovation.
"Let her watch," I said, turning back to the stage where the dancers were taking a break. "Some things are meant to happen, Rico. We just have to trust the rhythm."
He gave me a long look – the kind that reminded me he wasn't blind to the strangeness that surrounded my rise. But like all good managers, he knew when to ask questions and when to simply conduct the orchestra.
The dancers reassembled, and I moved toward the stage, my mind already racing ahead to the performance that would change everything. Again. In three days, the future would arrive dressed as the present, and the music industry would take another step down a path I'd paved with memories of tomorrow.
Behind me, I could feel her watching, her artist's intuition recognizing something familiar in rhythms she'd never heard before. Some harmonies transcend time, some connections refuse to be rewritten. Even as I reshuffled the deck of destiny, certain cards always seemed to find their way back to the top.
The music began again, and I let it carry me forward into the beautiful uncertainty of a future I was writing one note at a time.