SS-Doc_002: Lamar Bad Habits

Location: The Deadzone Bunker (The Booth) 

POV: LaMar 

The booth wasn't really a booth. It was a closet in the back of the vault, lined with stolen mattress pads, egg crate foam, and a lingering scent of cheap whiskey. 

LaMar adjusted the mic stand. It was held together with duct tape, but the diaphragm inside was vintage—a pre-ban Neumann he’d scavenged from a condemned studio in Sector 7. 

He took a sip from the paper cup on the stool—his breakfast—and signaled GoBoy through the thick glass. 

"Run it back," LaMar said. His voice was raspy, coated in the morning smog of the Lower Stack. "I was chasing the beat too hard. Let me sit in the pocket." 

The beat kicked in. It was dark, smoky, and dangerously smooth. A bassline that felt like a headache you didn't want to cure. 

LaMar closed his eyes. He didn't think about Sync Corp. He didn't think about the revolution or the "Signal Shadow." He thought about the rent he couldn't pay, the girl in Sector 4 who stopped texting him, and the way the city lights looked when you were three drinks deep and trying to forget your name. 

("I got a broken brake pedal, always goin' for the gold...") 

He leaned into the mic, switching seamlessly from a rhythmic talk-flow to a melodic croon. 

("Never settle for the metal, yeah... And I'm toxic, I know. But I'm poppin' for sure.") 

The vibration in his chest felt overwhelming. It felt like exorcism. 

[RESOLUTION BREAK] 

As he hit the bridge, the world shifted. The sharp, cel-shaded outlines of the 2d world style began to flicker. The textures of the mattress pads softened into hyper-reality. 

LaMar’s face changed. The cartoon shading dissolved. Suddenly, he was flesh and blood—sweat beading on his upper lip, the redness in his eyes visible, the stubble on his chin distinct. He wasn't a character in a story anymore. He was a human being, standing in a dark room, singing to a ghost. 

 ("I got a drink in my hand, maybe one of these comes two... or four... I can't say no.") 

He opened his eyes, staring directly into the lens. The pain was real. The swagger was a shield. 

("I got bad habits, baby, but I make 'em look good...") 

The track faded out. 

 LaMar stepped back from the mic. The reality filter snapped off. The gritty, illustrated outlines of the Bunker returned. He was back in the simulation. 

GoBoy spun around in his chair, grinning. "That's the one, Marc. That hook is sticky. The girls in the Stack are gonna lose their minds." 

LaMar stepped out of the booth, wiping his face with the sleeve of his hoodie. He felt lighter, but the hunger was still there. 

"It's sloppy," LaMar muttered, self-critical. "I dragged the timing on the second verse." 

"It drags because it's human," List3n said from the battered leather couch, not looking up from his notebook. "That's what makes it hit. It’s got a pulse. Unlike the robot music they're pumping upstairs." 

LaMar walked to the workbench and grabbed the bottle. He checked his phone. No signal. Just a saved video file of his old friend, Rollz, looking perfect and plastic on the news feed. 

"Rollz technically hits the notes," LaMar said, staring at the screen. "But he forgot why he's singing them." 

"And why do you sing 'em?" GoBoy asked, saving the session file. 

LaMar took a shot, feeling the burn settle in his chest. "Because it's the only way to get the poison out." 

He set the cup down next to an old, dusty audio interface. This was their ritual. Every morning, before they broadcasted the new stuff, they paid respect to the old stuff. 

LaMar pressed play on a different file. It wasn't his music. It was an old voice memo from four years ago. 

("I’m walking on the edge of the blade... bleeding out the colors that I never displayed...") 

The voice on the tape was Rollz, back when he was just Roland. Back before the "Penthouse" era. The recording quality was trash, but the flow was water. It twisted and turned, bending syllables in ways that shouldn't have been possible. 

"He could have been the best," LaMar whispered almost to himself. "He was the best I ever heard." 

"You torturing yourself with the old tapes again?" List3n asked gently. 

"You remember how he used to talk?" LaMar asked, ignoring the question. "How he’d slur a word just to make it rhyme with the silence? He treated words like clay. He molded them." 

He tapped the screen, switching to the preview of Rollz’s new single, Penthouse. 

("Living-in-a-pent-house. Dan-cing-with-the-stars.") 

"Listen to that," LaMar spat. "Crystal clear. He pronounces every consonant like he’s reading a dictionary. They stripped his accent. They stripped the slur. They made him sound 'correct' for the global market." 

"It’s the Global Intelligibility Filter," GoBoy chimed in. "Sync needs the song to be understood in Shanghai, London, and Rio instantly. Dialects get flattened. Soul gets flattened." I saw that in the contract after i won last years draft change my whole perception of what it “takes” to be an UpperRoom star. 

"It’s not just the accent," LaMar said, pacing the small room. "It’s the mind. Rollz used to write hooks that were puzzles—complex, three-layer metaphors. Now? It’s a nursery rhyme. Repetitive. Lame. It’s music for people who are afraid to think." 

He grabbed his hoodie, shoving the old recording device into his pocket. 

"They didn't just sign him," LaMar said, his voice hard. "They deleted him." 

"Where are you going?" List3n asked, sensing the shift in LaMar's energy. 

LaMar checked his watch—an old analog Casio. "I got a meeting. Keep the frequency open. I might have something for the broadcast tonight." 

"You got a track?" GoBoy asked, hopeful. 

LaMar zipped up his hoodie. He touched the empty pocket where he hoped he’d be carrying a data chip in an hour. 

"I don't know yet," LaMar said, heading for the heavy steel door. "I'm going to the tunnels. If I'm not back in two hours... burn the drives." 

He stepped back out into the noise of the Stack. The giant holographic face of his brother beamed down from a skyscraper, smiling a smile that LaMar knew was fake. 

"Let's see if you're still in there, Ro," LaMar muttered. He turned his collar up and disappeared into the crowd, heading for the underground.