Chương 92: Chapter 91: Never-Never Land (07/31/1989)

DATE: Monday, July 31, 1989 LOCATION: Sycamore Valley Ranch, Santa Ynez, California LOCAL TIME: 04: 30 PM PST The paint was barely dry on the Sycamore Valley Ranch. The massive Ferris wheel, the exotic zoo, and the sprawling amusement park that would soon make the property famous were still just blueprints sitting on a drafting table in the main house. I was sitting on a plush sofa in the primary suite, a twelve-year-old kid drinking a Coca-Cola.

Because of my child-star status, getting through the gates of the Santa Ynez estate hadn't required a tactical team, zero-latency VR, or a corporate proxy. It just required a phone call from my agent. At thirty years old, Michael Jackson was the most famous human being on the planet, and he was actively filling his new sanctuary with kids from the industry who "understood the pressure." To him, I was just another stressed-out kid actor.

To anyone else, I was the exact demographic of a potential victim—if the darkest rumors about this place were actually true. But I hadn't come here to be a victim, and I hadn't come to play video games. Jackson was sitting cross-legged on the floor a few feet away, excitedly unrolling a massive schematic of a miniature train depot he wanted to build around the perimeter of the estate.

"See, Chad?" he said, his voice light and breathy.

"The train will stop right by the arcade. It's going to be a place where kids can just be free. No agents, no press. Just magic." I set my Coke down on the coaster. I let the smile drop from my face.

"It isn't going to be magic, Michael," I said. My voice dropped the forced, high-pitched enthusiasm of a child actor, settling into the flat, even cadence of a man who had already lived forty years into the future.

"It's going to be a feeding ground." Jackson stopped tracing the blueprint. He looked up, his brow furrowing.

"What do you mean?" I unzipped my canvas backpack, pulled out a thick manila folder, and dropped it onto the coffee table between us. It landed with a heavy thud. A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

"You want to open your doors," I said, leaning forward, resting my elbows on my knees. I stared at him with eyes that were entirely too old for my face.

"You want to invite children here—kids who are sick, underprivileged, who are not your biological family—to give them the childhood you feel you were denied."

"I just want to heal them," Jackson stammered, instinctively shrinking back.

"And that exact sentiment is the weapon their parents are going to use to gut you." I pointed to the folder.

"Inside that file are the financial and psychological profiles of the types of families who will accept an invitation to let their child sleep in a billionaire's house. You think you are Peter Pan. But you are a billionaire swimming in a tank of sharks, and you are about to start rubbing chum on your arms." Jackson shook his head, his breathing shallow.

"No... no, their parents are good people. They're my friends."

"The parents are predators," I said. The tone left no room for debate.

"They are grifters and extortionists. If you build this park and invite them in, they will let you play the eccentric host right up until the moment their dental practice goes bankrupt. And when you inevitably cut them off, they will accuse you of the worst crimes imaginable." Jackson's breath hitched. Tears welled in his eyes as the illusion of his sanctuary cracked under the weight of the math.

"They will take it to the LAPD, and they will hold your legacy hostage for tens of millions of dollars," I continued relentlessly.

"It is a mathematical certainty. If you open this ranch to other people's children, you will trigger a media circus that will shatter your mind. You will spend the next twenty years hooked on painkillers, surrounded by yes-men, paying off scavengers until your heart gives out in a rented mansion." He looked down at the folder. The silence in the room was suffocating, heavy with the smell of fresh paint and impending ruin. He was looking at a twelve-year-old boy, but he was hearing the voice of an executioner.

"I am giving you the blueprint to survive," I said, zipping up my backpack and standing up.

"Build the rides if you want. But the gates stay closed. No sleepovers. No private meetings. You build a wall of lawyers, managers, and cameras between you and every family you interact with." I paused at the door of the suite, looking back at the biggest pop star in the world, paralyzed on the floor of his empty castle.

"Lock the gates to Neverland, Michael," I said quietly.

"Because the monsters are the ones dropping their kids off at the front door." I turned and walked out, finding my driver waiting in the courtyard. By forcing him to build a defensive perimeter against extortionists before the park was even built, the media circuses of the coming decades were erased entirely. The vulnerability was patched. I had just saved him from the timeline, simply by breaking his heart before the grifters could break his life. And if the darkest rumors about this place had actually been true?

Then I hadn't just built a wall to keep the extortionists out. I had built a cage to keep him in. Either way, the timeline was secure.