From American Internet Celebrity to God Among Men

192: Chapter 192 Auscultation Community, Translation PulseIn the early morning, Alex didn’t go to the studio, but instead drove alone to a slightly old neighborhood near Santa Monica.

This wasn’t the coastal scenic strip seen on tourist postcards, but the heartland of local residents’ lives. The streets weren’t wide, lined with aging Spanish-style bungalows; behind paint-peeled fences, bougainvilleas bloomed wildly. The air was thick with the scent of coffee, pancakes, and a faint dampness from the sea breeze.

He parked his car by the roadside, carrying no professional recording equipment, just walking slowly along the street like anyone else on a morning stroll. But all his senses, especially his honed Information Texture Discrimination, spread out quietly like the most precise passive sonar.

This wasn’t to look for ”anomalies.” It was a new topic he had designed for his daily ability training: stripping away visual dependence and constructing an ”instantaneous cross-section” of an unfamiliar community purely through sound and information texture.

His ears captured rich layers:

In the distance, the continuous low-frequency hum of traffic on the coastal highway was like the background breathing of this community.

Nearby, the faint sound of a television news broadcast from a household during breakfast carried a certain day-after-day rhythm of stability.

Above, old wooden utility poles made extremely subtle, rhythmic creaks in the breeze, like elderly joints moving.

In a yard diagonally ahead, an automatic sprinkler system started up; the hissing sound of water was regular and clear, but it was mixed with a discordant, rapid ”puff-puff” caused by a clogged nozzle, along with the light pitter-patter of water splashing onto a nearby metal mailbox.

More subtle was the ”texture” of the perceptual feedback:

The house with tightly closed curtains to his front-left conveyed a dull sense of ”sluggishness”—not a physical sound, but a certain lifeless, almost lonely emotional hue that faintly lingered around the building.

The small cafe at the corner with a faded sign emitted a warm ”information field” filled with caffeine and the warmth of interpersonal conversation; even if there weren’t many customers at the moment, that sense of being a community hub accumulated over many years was still discernible.

A few children ran past, their laughter crisp; the sound of their footsteps hitting the ground, the rattling of their backpacks, along with that carefree, vivid energy, streaked across the soundscape canvas of the street like bright colors.

Alex closed his eyes for a few seconds, and a three-dimensional portrait of the community, woven together by sounds, emotional reverberations, and traces of life, presented itself clearly in his consciousness. He could even roughly judge which houses were inhabited by the elderly, which were young families, the maintenance status of public facilities, and that the community overall had a slightly tired but still harmonious ”middle-aged” temperament.

”Auscultating the community...” he murmured to himself, opening his eyes and feeling he had a more fleshed-out understanding of this new project. This wasn’t just about collecting ”problematic noise,” but about understanding the pulse, breathing, and those subtle pain points of a living organism.

He walked to the front of the yard where the sprinkler system was having issues; the gate was unlocked. After a moment’s hesitation, he rang the doorbell.

A moment later, a gray-haired Latina grandmother in loungewear opened the door, her eyes somewhat puzzled.

”Good morning, ma’am. Sorry to bother you.” Alex gave his most harmless and gentle smile, pointing to the nozzle in her yard that was still spraying erratically with a ”puff-puff” sound. ”I just happened to be passing by and heard that one of your sprinkler nozzles seems to be clogged. It’s wasting water and splashing onto your mailbox. Do you need someone to take a look? I’ve fixed small problems like this before.”

The grandmother looked at him, then at the misbehaving nozzle, her face showing a look of realization and a bit of annoyance. ”Oh, yes, that’s been broken for several days. My son said he’d come fix it this weekend, but he’s always busy...” She hesitated, then stepped aside. ”You... really know how to fix it? I don’t want to trouble you too much.”

”It’ll be quick.” Alex walked in. The problem was simple: a tiny bit of grit was stuck in the bearing of the rotating nozzle. He asked the grandmother for a pair of old pliers and a bit of lubricant; in less than five minutes, he had it cleaned and adjusted smoothly. The water flow returned to a uniform, misty fan shape.

”Thank you so much, young man!” The grandmother was very happy and insisted on treating him to a cup of her homemade Mexican hot chocolate.

Alex didn’t refuse. Sitting in her simple but tidy little kitchen, listening to her ramble about living in this community for thirty years, how her children had moved away, and how it pained her to see the mailbox rusting from the water splashes... Drinking the sweet, thick hot chocolate, he felt he was closer to the core of this ”urban respiratory pathology” project than any data analysis could get him.

As he left, the grandmother stuffed a bag of homemade cookies into his hand. ”You’re a kind boy. God bless you.”

Back in the car, Alex started the engine, feeling inexplicably good. This kind of small, direct interaction that brought immediate positive change provided a grounded sense of satisfaction different from operating a massive platform or redeeming transcendent abilities. He turned on his terminal and sent a voice memo to Marcus and the content team:

”For the ’urban respiratory pathology’ project, when we launch the call for submissions, emphasize ’discovering the neglected sound stories around us, whether it’s ”noise” that needs smoothing out or ”harmony” worth sharing.’ The platform will collaborate with experts to try and provide ’sound diagnostics’ and improvement ideas for some cases, with follow-up reports. The first case can start with a small story like ’repairing a leaking sprinkler to soothe the worries of a woman living alone.’ Real, subtle, and warm.”

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Afternoon, the Echo Vision office.

On the screen in front of Alex, two interfaces were displayed side-by-side. On the left was a highly complex, multi-layered encrypted visualization map of a pulse sequence shared by Team K—originating from deep within the Greenland ice sheet. On the right was the digital audio spectrum analysis of Taylor’s song pressure gradient from echoes of the boundary stone, along with some of her inspiration fragments and notes about the correlation between ”deep-sea pressure and emotional suffocation” recorded during her creation.

His task, as the provider of Information Texture Discrimination, was to try and ”endow” the cold, abstract data pulses on the left with possible emotional colors or intentional tendencies, assisting the scientists of Team K in semantic-level deciphering.

This work was extremely challenging and also extremely interesting. The pulse sequence itself didn’t contain any human language or known symbolic systems; its encoding method exceeded the conventional framework of existing mathematical and information theories. Team K’s computing power was brute-forcing its structural patterns, but understanding ”what it might be expressing” required introducing dimensions closer to conscious activity—such as emotions, intentions, or even aesthetic tendencies.

Alex focused his attention on the pulse sequence map. He relaxed his mind, letting the perception of Information Texture Discrimination gently envelop those lines and points of light representing different frequencies, intensities, and intervals.

There were no specific images, no clear semantics. What was fed back was an extremely... non-human ”texture.”

It was cold, but not a lifeless cold; it was more like a highly sophisticated, purely functional cold, like an absolute zero fluid circulating within superconducting coils. It had patterns, but within those patterns was a detached, almost ”mechanical fatalism”-like rigor, lacking the fluctuations and redundancies common in biological emotions. Sensing carefully, at the base of that cold rigor, there seemed to be an extremely faint but widespread sense of ”inquiry”—not curiosity, but more like a predetermined program’s continuous scanning and status confirmation of the environment.

And at the nodes where certain pulse clusters erupted, he captured a fleeting, more intense ”perturbation”—similar to... a ”marker”? Or a ”response”? In texture, it was close to a ”standard feedback mechanism triggered after identifying specific variables.”

He tried to translate these purely textural experiences into linguistic descriptions that Team K might understand:

[Hypothesis A (Dominant Texture): Non-biological functional indifference. The overall emotional tone leans toward absolute neutrality, with an intent of ’procedural inquiry’ for system self-check/environmental monitoring. It lacks benevolence or malice, approaching an ’impersonal expression’ of natural phenomena (such as geomagnetic fluctuations).]

[Hypothesis B (Specific Nodes): Existence of a ’marker/response’ mechanism. At points of sudden pulse intensity change (referencing coordinate sequences GR-L-7 to GR-L-9), the texture presents brief ’target locking’ or ’status update’ characteristics, with the intentional tendency speculated as ’procedural feedback to changes in specific environmental variables (such as energy flow, material density?)’.]

[Additional Personal Intuition (Treat with Caution): The overall pulse sequence gives me the texture of an ’automated lighthouse’ or an ’unattended beacon.’ What it might be ’saying’ is not content, but status—’I am running, environmental parameters are as follows, specific thresholds have triggered standard responses.’]

He packaged these descriptions, along with his comparative observations of the pressure gradient audio spectrum (human emotional pressure expressions are full of imperfections, harmonic distortion, and emotional overflow, forming a stark contrast to the cold precision of the pulses), into an encrypted document and sent it to Team K’s designated interface.

He didn’t know how much help these descriptions would be. It was like asking a poet to describe the ”aesthetic” of a piece of machine code running, or an engineer to analyze the thermodynamic efficiency of a poem. But the generation of cross-disciplinary sparks often began with such seemingly unreliable attempts.

After sending, he rubbed his brow. This high-intensity ”texture projection” took a toll, mainly on his mental concentration.

There was a soft knock on the office door, and Taylor poked her head in, holding a thick folder, her eyes shining.

”Am I interrupting your ’translation’ of alien telegrams, Mr. Su?” she teased, walking in.

”It’s more like writing a fault description for a potentially broken cosmic refrigerator.” Alex smiled and leaned back in his chair. ”What is it? Looking at you, is there good news?”

”Vienna replied!” Taylor spread the folder out on his desk. ”They completely agree with our participation in the adaptation and really like our suggestions for ’retaining digital texture’ and ’introducing spatial audio thinking.’ Look, this is their preliminary proposal for the chamber orchestra arrangement, and several alternative structural adaptation directions... They even invited us, if time permits, to go to Vienna for a preliminary workshop!”

Her excitement was infectious. He picked up the proposal and scanned it quickly; it was professional and rigorous while retaining sufficient creative flexibility. ”Great. This is a milestone collaboration. Time... we can arrange it. Think of it as a deep artistic field trip, and we can collect some European ’soundscape’ material while we’re at it.”

”I thought so too!” Taylor sat on the edge of his desk. ”And, I was thinking... maybe this adaptation could try to incorporate a little bit of the more hidden things we’ve ’heard’? Not direct appropriation, but that kind of... textural inspiration? For example, the silence of glaciers, or the pulsation of the deep sea? Suggesting them with minimalist strings and special percussion techniques?”

Alex looked at the brilliance in her eyes that belonged to a true creator and nodded. ”Of course. Art should absorb all perception. As long as what’s presented in the end is music, a sound organization that can move people, it doesn’t matter if its inspiration comes from the deep sea or a supermarket cash register.”

He took her hand. ”Go for it. If you need my ’special hearing’ for reference, just say the word.”

”Mhm.” Taylor squeezed back, her smile warm and full of strength. This feeling of exploring the frontiers of their respective fields while being able to understand, support, and even spark inspiration in each other was incredibly precious.

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In the evening, Alex received a brief reply from Team K, giving high praise to his ”texture hypotheses”—”It injected a discussable ’conscious profiling’ dimension into the rigid mathematical model, which is highly enlightening. Hypothesis A aligns with the current mainstream direction of structural analysis. The ’marker/response’ mechanism pointed to by Hypothesis B has been listed as a key testing path for the next stage of decoding. Although the intuitive metaphor (automated lighthouse) cannot be proven, it provides a highly cohesive narrative framework that helps the interdisciplinary team form a consensus. Thank you for your contribution.”

Meanwhile, Marcus reported that after the ”urban respiratory pathology” project’s call for submissions was posted, the platform’s submission backend was flooded with a large number of entries within a few hours. Besides the expected noise complaints, there were more ”sound stories” filled with human touch: recording a sick neighbor’s persistence in playing a faint violin piece on the balcony every day; collecting all the subtle sounds of one’s own old house in different weather and at different times, calling it ”the house’s breathing”; and one user who uploaded snippets of nursery rhymes, out of tune but full of attachment, hummed occasionally by their mother with Alzheimer’s...

The community was responding to this ”auscultation” in its own way.

Alex stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window of his office as the lights of Los Angeles lit up one by one, like a glittering carpet spreading toward the ocean.

The hum remained.

His ability was being refined in the details.

The platform was taking root in warmth.

Art was growing in cross-disciplinary ways.

The hidden landscape was emerging pixel by pixel through patient ”translation.”

And that coordinate point in the South Pacific flickered quietly in Team K’s global model, like that small piece of eerie calm in the eye of a storm. Meteorological satellite cloud maps showed that a small-scale, persistent abnormal low-pressure vortex had recently formed in that sea area, but it had not yet reached tropical storm standards.

It was there.

Waiting.

Alex took a sip of water and closed the meteorological cloud map page.

No rush. What was meant to come would eventually come. Before it did, there was still much he had to do.