Soon came the new routine. Wake up. Review the auto-generated surgical steps. Arrive at the clinic. Meet the day’s patients. Sit back and watch the Multiectomy Machine work all on its own, powered by an unfathomable ghost. Damien recalled his first encounter with artificial intelligence, that little Microsoft paperclip, so meek in comparison. More a nuisance than anything, popping up to explain the file explorer when he was trying to open google. Witnessing this beast made him feel like Archimedes watching a nuclear bomb be assembled. By midday, he was nauseous. His hands were trembling, looking for anything to do. This sort of time was a toxin.

As the world slowed down around him, he finally remembered why he had done this. After the afternoon of Surge review, he found himself standing by his wall of idols, imagining the sounds he’d make with each. He freed his bass guitar from the display, strumming into life little tunes he had bottled up over a lifetime of distraction. But his fingers were slower, his mind duller, and the sounds that came out never matched the melodies he imagined. He wanted Black Sabbath, but instead got Sid Vicious. Sloppy. Unmeticulous.

More instruments. That’s what he needed, and a band. After all, what was a frontman with his ‘and the Frootloops’? In the deep time he was afforded, he began to explore GarageBand, arranging parts for each to be played alongside him. One day, he was strumming out a bassline that didn’t sound far off something Flea might make. The guitar parts were sunny and vibrant, the electronic drumkit went off on a dramatic fill, then came his solo. He plunged into it hard, his heart pumping. He could even hear the crowd before him. Suddenly, he was back in a frat basement gig. Sarah was right next to him, her curly hair spilling over her guitar as she brought forth sounds he’d never fathomed. A grin took his face, he even began to sing! He didn’t know where the words came from, but they were a tale of a man returning home after a long journey abroad.

Then it all stopped. He had reached the end of his arrangements, the drums cut out, and like a crashing train, his bass went haywire, stumbling over five whole stanzas before he forgot where he even was. The inspiration was gone. The arrangement was too rote. This wasn’t how a band composed. He needed synchronicity, a gaggle of little geniuses each pining after their own tune, their mutual creativity becoming burning jet fuel beneath their feet. But when he glanced around the basement, there was no one there. The drumsticks laid pristine and useless atop a leather cushion never sat upon. The guitar had no hands to strum it, covered in far more dust than sweat. The keyboard was rusted, purchased back before synthesizers needed computers. And then there was him, alone on the bass, in his small basement, living off the cash of an unfeeling machine like some kind of mafia trophy wife.

He sent out a few personals in the paper next week, sifting through the hordes of hobbyist cover band for any true artists looking to do something bold. Not that many read it, but at least he’d be targeting his own age bracket. But after a month he had zilch in terms of replies. Who was he kidding? Why shake his control over this new little band of his? It’s not like it’d do him any favors to hire an old fart of a front man, especially when he had something to show the world. Elsewhere in the basement, behind a large canvas sheet, sat his old Multiectomy Machine. It had remained there untouched ever since the Surge machine had ripped it free. Why had he still hung onto it? Some nostalgic foolishness stopped him from taking it to the dump.

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