Alex Thorley Becomes A Producer - SCP Foundation

At that moment, there was no work, no bagel, no Foundation. There was only music.

Silence in the studio.

It's bloody hot in here. The padded walls do more than keep sound in. You stop staring at the black screen of the laptop and turn to stare at something else. There is a CD in your hands, and you need to get outside the city. The mixing knobs linger with grease and sweat from your fingers.

The lighting is poor and damp. It's more successful at making you sleepy and tired than illuminating the room. You take a glance at the dark recording room, but nothing greets your sight.

You decide to leave the dust-coated bagel on the laptop keyboard. You turn off the lights, and shut the door.

The skyscrapers are grey, and so is the sky. The leaves do not sway. You stand in the center of a massive junction, completely devoid of traffic. The lights keep flashing, though. You pick a direction and start walking. The clouds above you drift slowly off towards somewhere.

Occasionally, your skin thrums to your heartbeat. Like a beating drum, sounding somewhere in the distance. Confined in a black room, hot, flashing, sweating. You've never been to a rave before.

The air feels dense and warm. Your clothes stick to your skin. You want to take your jumper off, but you don't. You pass through locked stores and shops, selling pale fruits and colorless curiosities.

You long for color.

Halfway out of the city. You're not sure how you can tell. The towers of concrete are uniform in style, almost repeating. You decide it must have something to do with some of the buildings gradually being more unrepaired. Some are missing windows. Some are missing altogether.

The asphalt burns your soles. You spot a motorcycle in the distant alley. It looks vintage, muscular. Its metallic sheen is pleasing to look at. You drag the vehicle on the middle of the road. You've never rode a motorcycle before. There is no police, no traffic rules. The road stretches straightly forward.

There's a speed limit sign ahead. It says nothing.

A small breeze blows as you start the motorcycle. You wonder if it will rain.

The road ends, transitioning into a vast, infinite opening. The ground is completely flat and reflective, like a huge mirror. It's making it a little hard to discern the sky from the land. The remaining buildings, now only a concrete shell, speed past you. The city behind you slowly shrinks. First a black mound. Then a line. Then a dot. Then nothing.

You are truly out of the city now.

You drive your motorcycle a little faster.

You stand up from the ground, a little shocked but unscathed. The sky seems a bit darker than before. The motorcycle has drifted off a few hundred meters in front of you, already at its destination. You walk to it, and see a DJ controller atop a small table. To your left and right are a set of stereo speakers, elevated to your height.

»INSERT DISC

You insert the CD in a conveniently placed CD player nearby.

»WARNING: DATA CORRUPTION DETECTED. POTENTIAL FAILURE IMMINENT.

PROCEED? Y/N

…

…

»yes

»NOW PLAYING: [THIS MUSIC DOES NOT EXIST].mp3

…

…

…

The speakers pop to life. You look up from the monitor and see metal girders now elevated in front of you, supporting floodlights and lasers shining on the nonexistent dancefloor, shimmering with their monochromatic visual effects. The cue button glows.

Synth. Guitar. Drum. Kick. The pale grey world trembles with your music. It shudders, and so do you. Lights and flashes in unison with the rhythm. A crowd of dancing Alex Thorleys manifest in front of you. They seem to enjoy your taste of music as well.

At that moment, there was no work, no bagel, no Foundation.

There was only music.

You could feel the world pulsing with your every turn of the knob, every flick of the bars. The ground turns more transparent, allowing you to see the clouds below. The fog machines turn on, and the beams of lights refract in the fog, producing little particles of color.

You find yourself alone, and the music louder and clearer. No one is here to question you. No one is here to give you jobs and chores. You have found solace in the drums and the saw waves, more than the silence could ever offer. You are not ignorant of the fact that all of this is merely an illusion, and you are still sitting on your chair in Site-19, in the lukewarm and humid air, staring at your computer screen.

The moment feels so fragile, so unreal. You know that all of this will end soon, and simply a touch from others might break it, and you would be thrust back into your mundane life that you dreaded so much, with all the bagels and sushis and work and whatnot. You are also well aware that everything that ever exist will fade into oblivion someday, and you do not matter all that much, not to the foundation nor to the world.

But Alex Thorley didn't care, for at that moment, there was music.

You are immersed in the music that you made, that you truly take pride in. And that was enough.

You snap out of your trance and keep adjusting the knobs. Far out into the distance, you could see distant silhouettes big as mountains, hidden by the fog, dancing along to your music.

And the earth trembles to their footsteps, as if relieving a sigh.

And Alex Thorley smiles.