From American Internet Celebrity to God Among Men

204: Chapter 204 Unexpected ChordsThere were no new developments from the Sahara for the time being. Team K only sent a brief confirmation: ”Report received, currently analyzing. The signal characteristics match the model of ’low-power sleep system triggered into micro-response by external stimuli.’ This confirms that there really is ’something’ underground, and it isn’t completely ’dead.’ Nice work.”

Alex stared at the screen, but his mind conjured an image: beneath the boundless yellow sands lay something enormous, cold, and resembling both metal and rock. It had been asleep for perhaps tens of thousands of years, only occasionally—when the sand grains above were slightly disturbed by wind or temperature changes, or, like this time, when someone approached with a more precise ’stethoscope’—would it ’twitch’ ever so slightly in its deep slumber, emitting one or two formatted dream-murmurs that it might not even remember itself.

It was a chilling feeling, but more than that, it held a certain desolate romance. A forgotten ’alarm clock’ from the stars, still deep in the desert, persisting in its faint, incomprehensible self-check routine, measured in units of ten thousand years.

He shared this thought with Taylor. At the time, Taylor was frowning at a pile of sound waveforms, trying to ’salvage’ the kind of ’brief, orderly spark’ she wanted from a chaotic stretch of electronic noise.

”Like a broken robot buried in the sand,” Taylor said after listening, tilting her head in thought. ”Still stubbornly executing its last command: ’Every... uh, random long interval, perform self-check, beep—’” She mimicked a stiff electronic voice, then laughed. ”It’s a bit sad, but also cool. What is it waiting for? Or does it not even know it’s waiting?”

”Maybe it’s just ’existing’,” Alex said. ”Like a special kind of stone that just happens to ’tick’ occasionally.”

This metaphor gave Taylor pause. She turned back to look at her chaotic waveforms. ”Maybe my first movement shouldn’t be entirely chaotic ’noise’,” she murmured. ”Maybe it should also hide some of these... extremely faint, yet terrifyingly regular ’ticks,’ like a heartbeat from another dimension buried in a recording of a tsunami. It makes one’s spine tingle, but you can’t help but want to find it.”

”That’s good.” Alex nodded. He could imagine the effect: amidst the overwhelming chaos of sound, faintly catching a ghostly, non-human, absolutely precise rhythm would bring a strange, bone-deep thrill and desire to explore. This was more intuitive and powerful than a purely technical description.

He loved chatting with Taylor like this. Being able to turn the deepest, most secret explorations into sparks of creative inspiration, and then into daily conversations they could both understand and even joke about. It made him feel that the path of the Translator and the Interpreter he had embarked upon was neither lonely nor cold.

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The first batch of outstanding entries from the ”City Soundscape Transcription Challenge” was made into a small online exhibition by the Echo platform, given the rather artistic title 《Hearing Your City》. The exhibition didn’t have rankings; it simply featured over thirty diverse submissions, accompanied by the authors’ creative notes, like tiny capsules of sound memories.

The response was unexpectedly good. Many users expressed that after seeing others’ ’transcriptions,’ they realized the street corners they passed every day and the noise they were used to hearing could actually be interpreted as containing so many stories and emotions. A small trend of ’re-listening to the world around us’ quietly swept through the platform’s community.

What surprised Alex and Marcus even more was that this online exhibition attracted an unexpected collaborator—a ”Public Space Experience Optimization” project team under the New York Department of Transportation.

The person in charge was a sound art enthusiast who, after seeing the Tokyo entry that painted the noise of Times Square as a ukiyo-e print, and the local New York entry that turned subway announcements into short poems, took the initiative to contact Echo.

”We have always been thinking about how to make the ’sounds’ of urban infrastructure less annoying, and perhaps even bring a positive experience,” the person in charge said in the video conference. ”Your challenge and exhibition showed us a possibility: it’s not about simply eliminating or beautifying noise, but helping citizens ’understand’ or even ’reconstruct’ the meaning of these sounds. Can we collaborate on a small experiment? For example, in a subway transfer corridor, create an interactive sound installation based on real-time ambient sound? Processing sounds like trains arriving, footsteps of crowds, and broadcast announcements in real-time into ever-changing, short musical segments or natural soundscapes? Turning waiting for a train into a small sound adventure?”

Marcus’s eyes lit up. This was the most direct manifestation of the social value of the Theia Project! Jumping straight from online community fun to participating in transforming real urban sensory experiences. He immediately organized the team to follow up.

Alex was also very supportive. He felt the brilliance of this idea lay in the fact that it didn’t fight noise, but ’translated’ it. Turning things one had to endure into experiences one could actively participate in interpreting or even enjoying. This was similar in core logic to how he handled those secret signals and how Taylor handled abstract concepts—taking seemingly chaotic or oppressive ’input’ and, through creative ’translation,’ converting it into meaningful, or even beautiful, ’output.’

He gave this collaborative experimental project a temporary codename: ”Urban Auditory Filter.”

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One evening a few days later, Alex was in the study organizing the initial observation notes for the Theia Project, while Taylor was in the studio next door ’wrestling’ with her computer, synthesizers, and a pile of physical instruments.

Suddenly, an extremely strange sound drifted over. The sound... was hard to describe. It was a bit like rubbing glass with a wet cloth, and a bit like a rusty spring slowly stretching, interspersed with short, sharp ’beep’ sounds that only electronic equipment could emit. It wasn’t melodic, but inexplicably had a captivating sense of rhythm and... spatiality.

Alex put down his pen and walked over out of curiosity.

Taylor was wearing monitor headphones, eyes closed, her body swaying slightly to some internal beat. On the mixing console in front of her, various indicator lights were flashing wildly. On the screen, the sound waveform looked like a twisted, spike-filled mountain peak.

She didn’t notice Alex enter immediately. It wasn’t until a sound loop ended that she opened her eyes, let out a long sigh of relief, and then saw him at the doorway.

”How is it?” she asked with bright eyes, carrying a bit of excitement from the experimental success and uncertainty.

”Very... unique.” Alex found a chair and sat down. ”It sounds like a pile of scrap metal arguing, but arguing in a very orderly way. What is this? A new version of the ’transient resonant cavity’ in the first movement?”

”Exactly!” Taylor excitedly pulled up the project file. ”I used the ’briefly orderly’ approach you mentioned last time, but I played it more extremely this time. I recorded the sound of a rusty iron door in an old warehouse opening and closing, and the electronic sound of an old oscilloscope performing a self-check, cut them into fragments, and then used an algorithm to randomly scatter them in a virtual 3D space, letting them collide, bounce, and occasionally ’stick’ together to form a brief ’chord’... What you just heard was the result of the algorithm running for five minutes. I slightly adjusted the collision rules and ’stickiness’ parameters.”

She played another segment. This time the sound was sparser, with more ’beeps’ and less friction, sounding like a few cold satellites in a silent universe occasionally exchanging encrypted Morse code.

”I am simulating ’the accidental encounter and brief understanding of signals in the void’,” Taylor explained. ”Some fragments collide and can ’understand’ each other for a split second, emitting an interesting harmony, then are carried away by their respective orbits. Some remain parallel forever, some are smashed to pieces... I want to use this purely physical, random method to generate that ’order within chaos’ texture, rather than writing it subjectively.”

Alex understood. This was a method of ’outsourcing’ the creative process to algorithms and physical rules; the composer was more like a ’gardener’ or ’gold prospector’ who set initial conditions and filtered results. This was very ’Theia’—the process of exploring how information (sound fragments) interacts autonomously within specific rules (algorithmic space) to emerge into patterns.

”I like this approach,” he said. ”Especially that ’metal argument’ from just now; it has a kind of savage vitality. However...” He carefully savored it. ”Aren’t those ’beeps’ a bit too ’new’ and ’clean’? Does it conflict with the feeling of age, delay, and loss you wanted? Maybe you could add some ’retro filters’ to them? Like simulating old-fashioned radio noise, or the distortion of worn-out magnetic tape?”

Taylor slapped her thigh. ”Right! Why didn’t I think of that! Add traces of ’propagation loss’ to these ’information packets’ themselves! That way, even if they accidentally form a harmony, it will be a harmony with static, intermittent, more like something that has traveled through vast time and space to arrive... Perfect!”

She immediately set to work trying it out. Alex didn’t leave; he sat nearby, occasionally saying something based on his intuition when she was unsure, like ”The distortion could be a bit higher” or ”Make that Echo tail a little longer, make it sound more ethereal.”

The two of them, in the studio filled with equipment, were like two explorers treasure-hunting in a sound swamp, tweaking parameters little by little, listening to the results, and discussing intuition. Outside the window, the sky gradually darkened, city lights lit up one by one, and the room was filled with a focused and warm atmosphere of creation.

Later, they ordered takeout and continued tinkering while eating in the studio. When a segment—with clear magnetic tape wear floor noise, mixed with the hum of old vacuum tubes, but with a few broken melodic fragments accidentally colliding to produce a short and moving ’pseudo-melody’—was finally frozen and saved by Taylor, both of them couldn’t help but high-five.

”This is it!” Taylor’s eyes shone. ”Although it’s only two seconds, in these two seconds, there is chaos, there is loss, and there is also a miraculous, imperfect understanding. This is the ’core seed of the first movement’ I wanted!”

Alex looked at her flushed cheeks from excitement, his heart filled with warmth. This was what he wanted: while exploring the deepest secrets of the world, he could also create heart-touching beauty that belonged to ’humans’ together with the person closest to him.

Late at night, Alex was on the balcony alone, feeling the breeze. He thought of that cold ’tick’ deep under the Sahara, the ’sound filters’ that might ring out in New York subway stations in the future, and those two seconds of ’imperfect understanding’ that had just been born in the studio.

Ancient, urban, personal... all sounds, all information, all desires attempting to be understood and expressed, seemed at this moment to transcend time, space, and form, forming a vast, complex, yet faintly resonating ’chord’ in his perception.

Although most of this chord was still a chaotic mess, a few bright, warm notes belonging to ’humans’ could already be clearly distinguished within it.

That was enough.

The path of the Translator, the path of the Interpreter, was also the path of listening to and creating these warm notes.

He returned to the study and added a line at the end of the notes for the Theia Project:

”Perhaps, the greatest Interpreter is not restoring the ’original text,’ but in the noise, for oneself and others, hearing (and creating) those segments of ’imperfect understanding,’ and connecting them into poetry.”