My production setup hummed to life as I settled into my bedroom studio. Three hours until the battle. The MPC2000XL's familiar glow brought back memories of countless nights spent mastering this machine – both in this timeline and the other.
I pulled out a crateful of vinyl, fingers moving automatically to the records I'd need. James Brown's "The Boss" for the backbone. A forgotten Ahmad Jamal cut for texture. And that obscure Japanese jazz sample that wouldn't get discovered by the mainstream for another decade.
The beat had to be perfect – innovative enough to win tonight but not so revolutionary it would raise eyebrows. In my original timeline, this track had caught Rico's attention with its raw potential. This time, I refined it with subtle touches: micro-adjustments to the swing, precisely layered frequencies, and mixing techniques that wouldn't become standard until 2010.
"Marcus?" Mom's voice carried through the door. "You eating before you go out?"
"Already ordered pizza," I called back, noting another change from the original timeline where I'd skipped dinner from nerves. "Should be here in twenty."
My fingers danced across the MPC pads, muscle memory from two timelines merging into one fluid motion. The beat took shape: hard-hitting drums, syncopated bass, those signature switches that would become my trademark. I added one final touch – a subtle chord progression that would subconsciously evoke a hit song from 2015. Just enough to feel fresh without seeming impossible for 2002.
The pizza arrived as I was fine-tuning the mix. I ate while running the track through my Gateway's primitive speakers, testing how it would sound on the warehouse system. The limitations of 2002 technology were frustrating – no neural audio processing, no quantum harmonics, not even basic spectral manipulation tools. But limitations bred creativity. That's what I'd always taught my students in 2035.
At 10:30, I packed up my equipment. The MPC, cables, and a DAT tape backup – antiquated but reliable. I caught my reflection in the darkened window: seventeen again, dressed in baggy jeans and a hoodie, but standing with the confidence of a man who'd built and lost and rebuilt empires.
"Going to Rico's thing?" Mom asked as I headed downstairs. She was just getting ready for her night shift, scrubs fresh and ironed.
"Yeah. Got something special this time."
She gave me that look again – hope warring with worry. "Just be careful. And Marcus?" She hesitated. "I believe in you, baby. Even when I'm scared for you, I believe in you."
I hugged her tight, remembering how these same arms would embrace me after my first platinum record, my first Grammy, my first billion. "Love you, Ma. Everything's gonna work out. Promise."
The Bronx night air hit me as I stepped outside, equipment under my arm. Somewhere in this city, industry giants were making decisions that would shape the next decade of music. But tonight, in a warehouse twenty blocks from here, the future was about to change.
One beat at a time.