Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I Don’t Wanna Go Down to the Basement"

By Arion Eggers
Chapter 1

September 15th, 2004
Johnny Ramone didn’t expect the afterlife.
Actually, he didn’t expect anything at all. He just... blinked. One second, pain. The next? Silence. Cold stone beneath him.
He sat up slowly, his body aching in a way that felt far too real for death. The place smelled of mildew and regret. Bare concrete walls. A flickering overhead bulb. A drain in the floor that looked like it had stories.
And stairs. Going up.
But behind him—darkness.
Johnny turned, squinting. Something was back there.
Something wrong.
A slow scrape.
Then another.
From the shadows, two figures emerged. Lanky, shambling, masked—white, pitted hockey masks, just like the ones Jason wore in those damn slasher flicks he used to love.
Then the noise started.
BRRRZZZZZZZZZ!
Chainsaws. Two of them.
The roaring, howling buzz echoed through the basement. One of the figures revved his saw dramatically, tilting his head like a curious dog. The other dragged his along the floor, the metal shrieking against concrete.
Johnny’s eyes widened.
“No fuckin’ way.”
He ran. Fast.
Up the stairs—two at a time. His white Keds slamming the steps. His lungs burning. He hit the door. Locked.
Of course it was locked.
He turned just in time to see the two horror figures raise their chainsaws.
“So this is it,” Johnny muttered, bracing himself. “I die again, in Hell, chased by slasher-movie knockoffs. Perfect.”
But the chainsaws—stopped.
And then… laughter.
Wild, cackling laughter.
The masks came off.
Joey Ramone—six-foot-something, gawkier than ever, his hair still a nest of black threads.
And Dee Dee—grinning ear to ear, already bouncing on his toes like he was about to leap off a stage.
“You should’ve seen your face, man!” Dee Dee howled, slapping his knee. “Priceless!”
Johnny just stared.
“...Are you fucking kidding me?”
Joey wiped a tear from behind his oversized shades.
“Welcome to the afterlife, Johnny. Hope you don’t mind basements.”
Johnny stared at the two of them.
“I thought… I mean, we didn’t exactly end things great.”
Joey nodded. “Yeah. We fought. A lot. You were a control freak. I was a stubborn bastard.”
Johnny grimaced. “I was a bastard too.”
A silence stretched between them. Then:
“I loved her,” Johnny said quietly. “Linda. I didn’t plan for it to happen like that. I just… I couldn’t stop myself.”
Joey tilted his head. For a moment, Johnny thought he might deck him, after all these years.
But Joey just shrugged.
“That’s old news, man. You made her happy. She made you happy. I made my peace with that a long time ago.”
Johnny exhaled, shoulders sagging.
“I hated wasting all that time. All those tours. Cold shoulders. Petty fights over politics and garbage.”
Joey smirked.
“Guess now we got eternity to make up for it.”
Dee Dee clapped his hands. “We just need Tommy, man! Then we’re all here!”
Johnny raised an eyebrow.
“When’s he getting here?”
Joey shrugged. “Few more years. He's taking his sweet time. Thought you’d get here sooner, since you were always a punctuality freak...”
Johnny huffed a short laugh. “Figures.”
Dee Dee tossed the chainsaw aside. It vanished midair, morphing into a familiar shape: a white Fender Precision bass.
Joey’s weapon morphed too—into his trademark mic stand, complete with dangling mic.
Dee Dee grinned. “C’mon, Johnny. Let’s make some noise.”
Johnny’s Mosrite appeared in his hands like it never left him. He stared at it for a second, then slung the strap over his shoulder.
Joey grabbed the mic.
Dee Dee stomped his foot.
And with that sacred silence only a punk band can summon before chaos—Dee Dee roared:
“1, 2, 3, 4!”
They launched into “Blitzkrieg Bop”, the walls of the afterlife basement shaking with that classic four-chord fury.
Somewhere far above them, in the land of the living, a record needle skipped. A Ramones T-shirt flickered into existence in a thrift shop window. A kid in a garage hit his first power chord and thought: “Hey ho, let’s go.”
________________________________________
THE END (until Tommy arrives)

AUTHOR'S NOTE: WHERE YOU ABLE TO SPOT THE REFERENCE TO A RAMONE'S SONG? ;)

Chapter Text

By Arion Eggers
________________________________________
July 11th, 2014
Tommy Ramone’s body gave out. Quietly, peacefully, far from the mosh pits and screaming amps.
But death wasn’t what he expected.
He didn’t wake to light or clouds. He woke to buzzing.
BZZZZZzzzzZZZZ
“Ugh—what the—” Tommy slapped wildly at his neck. Mosquitoes. Dozens of them.
He sat up fast and realized he wasn’t in a hospital bed. Not even close.
Towering jungle trees loomed above. Vines dangled like snakes. Everything was green, wet, and humming with life.
He looked down. His flannel shirt and jeans were still intact, but mud and leaf bits clung to him like stage sweat after a set.
“What the hell…”
Then he heard it. Chanting.
“Gabba… Gabba… we salute you… Gabba Gabba we salute you…”
From the foliage, they emerged.
Pinheads.
Like actual cone-shaped heads. Their skin was painted in tribal patterns. Their clothing—minimal, loincloths and bone jewelry. Tattoos and piercings everywhere. They raised spears and circled in, chanting louder.
“Alright, alright, back off!” Tommy barked, raising his fists. “I’m a drummer, not a chew toy!”
But there were too many. They tackled him, pinned him down, and tied his wrists and ankles to a long stick—just like in every bad jungle cannibal movie he used to watch with Dee Dee.
They hoisted him up and began marching through the jungle, still chanting:
“GABBA GABBA WE SALUTE YOU!”
Tommy groaned.
“Okay, I get it. I’m in Hell. For what, though? I was the normal one!”
Just as one Pinhead raised what looked suspiciously like a ceremonial pineapple knife—
SWOOSH!
A vine swung down.
And with a cry of raw, wild power—a redhead in a leopard-skin bikini came flying through the trees.
She dropkicked a Pinhead straight into the bushes, flipped midair, and landed in a crouch, holding a spear that appeared out of nowhere.
“LET. HIM. GO.”
In seconds, the jungle exploded into chaos. Sheena—the Sheena, apparently—was a whirlwind of fists, kicks, and spear-swipes. The Pinheads yelped and scattered like scared little punks at their first mosh pit.
When the dust settled, she approached Tommy, cut his bindings with a sparkling flint knife, and extended a creamy white, freckled hand to him.
“Hi,” she said, helping him to his feet with a wink.
“I’m Sheena from the Jungle. And I’m a punk rocker.”
As she spoke, her outfit morphed in a shimmer of light: her leopard-skin bikini became a black leather biker jacket, light blue jeans, white Keds, and a black-and-white striped crop top that revealed her hourglass figure and a mischievous belly button piercing.
“And what would your name be, handsome?” she asked, trailing her fingers up Tommy’s chest.
“Wanna come to my treehouse hut and have some fun?”
Tommy blinked.
“I mean… sure?”
She leaned in for a kiss. So did he. Their lips were just inches away.
Closer…
Closer…
...Still closer…
But nothing happened.
Instead—laughter. Loud, raucous, familiar laughter.
Tommy opened his eyes. Sheena was gone. In her place, Dee Dee Ramone was rolling on the jungle floor, cackling like he was on stage with a fog machine behind him.
“Oh man! I can’t believe you fell for the Sheena routine! Classic!”
Tommy scowled. “Where the hell am I? And what was that?!”
Dee Dee wiped tears from his eyes. “Welcome to the afterlife, man. Joey and Johnny are waiting. We’ve got a gig.”
He led Tommy through the jungle as the trees thinned and the sound of a crowd grew louder. They emerged into a massive clearing, where a glowing stage the size of a stadium waited, rimmed by neon lights and heaven-scorched amps. The crowd stretched into eternity—punk angels, rock ghosts, lost groupies, and rock ‘n’ roll’s forgotten children.
As they stepped backstage, the Pinhead cannibals reappeared—but with a ripple of distortion, they morphed into Joey and Johnny Ramone, both grinning like maniacs.
And they weren’t alone.
Standing behind them were Sid Vicious, John Lennon, George Harrison, Kurt Cobain, Janis Joplin, Freddie Mercury, and Jimi Hendrix, all tuning up, drinking, or just watching the chaos unfold.
“You guys!” Tommy gasped. “You were the Pinheads?!”
Johnny smirked. “Joey’s idea.”
“I told you we’d welcome him with style,” Joey said, adjusting his shades.
Sid Vicious sauntered over, holding out a beer.
“Here, mate. You look like you could use this.”
Tommy reached for it—
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Joey said, stopping him with a hand.
“Hey! No fair!” Sid whined. “You always ruin my revenge plans!”
Joey turned to Tommy. “He’s still bitter about that time we handed the Sex Pistols some beers we’d… previously seasoned backstage.”
“Ohhh,” Tommy said, grinning now. “That tour. That was fun.”
Everyone burst into laughter.
Dee Dee grinned. “Now that we’re all here… you ready to play, Tommy?”
Tommy took a deep breath. He felt younger already. Stronger. Alive in death.
He looked at his bandmates—his brothers.
He grabbed the sticks that magically appeared in his hands.
And he nodded.
“Let’s give ‘em one more hell of a show.”

AUTHORS NOTE: WERE YOU ABLE TO SPOT THE REFERENCE TO A RAMONE'S SONG? ;)

Chapter Text

"Flaming Pie"

Chapter 3 of the Afterlife Tour
By Arion Eggers

November 29th, 2001

George Harrison opened his eyes.

Everything was white. Blindingly white.
There was no sky, no ground—just an endless blank canvas. No pain. No sound. No body.

So this is death, he thought.
Peaceful. Quiet. Almost boring, really.

Then—
A sound.

Not birdsong. Not a harp.
Barking.

Fierce, guttural, getting closer.

A moment later, a huge, muscular bull-dog exploded into view—eyes red, jaws foaming, growling like some guard dog of hell. George didn’t stop to question it. He ran.

White became color as he sprinted. The world began to form around him—grass, sky, trees, a path. In the distance, red gates rose from the ground, ornate and glowing, crowned by golden lettering that read:

STRAW BERRY FIELDS

He almost laughed.
“Back in Liverpool, eh?” he muttered, catching his breath. “Strange version of it.”

But the snarling beast was still behind him. George scrambled through the gates and slammed them shut. The bulldog skidded to a halt on the other side, growling but defeated.

The garden stretched before him in vivid, technicolor wonder.
Tangerine trees lined the path, leaves shimmering in orange hues. Cellophane flowers of yellow and green swayed gently in the breeze. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear a gentle sitar melody weaving through the air.

“I must’ve crossed into a song,” George said to himself with a soft smile.

He walked through the fields, hands brushing tall grass, past a marble mushroom fountain, until he reached a slow, winding river. There, docked at the embankment, was a wooden boat, empty, waiting.

No oars. No paddles.

He hesitated—but climbed in.

The boat began to move upstream, gliding on its own, water parting without resistance. George leaned back, letting the sun warm his face, feeling something close to serenity.

The boat gently nudged ashore at a small clearing.

Before him stood a house in the shape of a giant green apple, its surface glossy like porcelain, catching the sun’s light in strange ways. It was at once odd and familiar.

Outside the front door sat a small wooden table, on which rested a perfect cherry pie—on fire.

Flames licked the crust but didn’t burn. The pie didn’t melt. It didn’t blacken or collapse. It simply burned, untouched and unfazed.

George raised a brow.
“Well. That’s new.”

He stepped around the flaming dessert, more amused than disturbed, and approached the door. Curiosity tugged at him, stronger now than caution.

He knocked.

A long pause. Then—

A deep, booming voice answered from inside, theatrical and strange:
“PASSWORD?”

George blinked.
“Password?”

He looked around. No clues. Nothing on the trees, or the boat, or the apple house itself—until his eyes drifted back to the flaming pie.

A spark lit in his brain.

“...Flaming Pie?”

CLICK.

The door swung open.

Standing there, dressed head-to-toe in a crisp white suit, round glasses perched perfectly on his nose, was none other than John Lennon.

He grinned.
“About bloody time, Geo.”

George’s breath caught.
“John…”

“You didn’t think I’d let you not jam with me again, did you?” John stepped aside, motioning him in. “Come on. The audition ain’t over.”

From the air beside them, a guitar shimmered into existence, appearing in John’s hands like it had always belonged there.

“Get your old six-string out.”

George blinked—and in his own hands, an acoustic guitar took shape, warm and perfectly tuned.

John tilted his head, smiling like the Cheshire Cat.
“Let’s play ‘Raunchy.’ Just like back in the day.”

George smiled softly.
His fingers found the strings.
And the first notes of the old instrumental riff floated out like a memory made music.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Chapter Text

From the Afterlife Tour
By Arion Eggers

The final note of Raunchy drifted into the air like a leaf falling onto still water. George let his fingers rest on the strings, eyes closed. It had been decades, but the muscle memory hadn’t left him.

“Still got it,” John said, his grin as cheeky as ever. “I was worried the chemo might’ve ruined your reflexes—but clearly not. Pleasant surprise.”

George smirked, opening one eye.
“I could say the same. I half expected to see you filled with holes.”

John rolled his eyes and waved dismissively. “Bah, that incident was blown way out of proportion by the ravenous vultures best known as the press.”

He snapped his fingers, and a delicate wine glass appeared between them, floating until it landed neatly in John’s hand. He took a sip.

“Psycho bloke barely managed to scratch me.”

As the words left his mouth, dark red liquid began pouring out of sudden holes in his torso—six or seven of them, staining his white suit like slow-motion carnage.

George’s breath caught. He stiffened, frozen.
But John just looked down and chuckled.

“Relax, mate,” he said, holding out the glass. “It’s not blood. It’s just wine.”

The smell hit George a second later—fruity, heady, not coppery. He exhaled.
Then he laughed. Loud, long, and with that unmistakable Liverpudlian rasp.

“You’re still the same bloody lunatic.”

John raised his glass in a half-salute. “I let the dark side of my sense of humor stretch its legs every now and then. Perks of being dead.”

George’s laugh slowed—but then he glanced down.

Scratches. Stab wounds. Slashes started appearing across his own arms, his chest, one near his ribs—blood trickling from them. Yet he felt nothing. No pain. No panic. Just an eerie detachment.

“How is this pos—?”

John held up a finger before he could finish.
“Memories aren’t just memories around here. Same goes for thoughts. Anything you’ve got tucked away in that soul of yours, anything you remember, feel, or fear—can be materialized. With practice, you learn to control it. But sometimes…” He pointed at the wounds. “Sometimes it sneaks out.”

George swallowed hard, blinking down at the gashes.
“Talking about your death triggered it,” he murmured. “Made me remember…”

“New Year’s Eve, 1999.” John said quietly.

George nodded.
“That lunatic broke into my house. Had a knife. I thought it was the end.”
He smiled softly. “Had it not been for Olivia, I might’ve joined you a lot sooner.”

John whistled. “Well, I’m glad you didn’t check out that dramatically. Between the four of us, I was always the drama king.”

“Was?” George arched an eyebrow.

John laughed. “Fair point.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the garden wind whispering through the trees. George’s wounds faded, vanishing as quickly as they came. John’s wineholes sealed up too, leaving his white suit spotless once more.

John stepped forward and patted George gently on the shoulder.
“Now that the guitar warm-up’s done and the trauma flashbacks are out of the way…”

He grinned again, but softer this time.
“...You’ve got questions, don’t you?”

George met his gaze, the weight of decades behind his tired but peaceful eyes.

“Yes,” he said. “I do.”

TO BE CONTINUED...

Chapter Text

From the Afterlife Tour
By Arion Eggers

They walked slowly through the Afterfields, where the grass seemed to hum with old refrains and the air tasted faintly of lemon oil and cigarette smoke. The Flaming Pie house gleamed behind them; beyond it, the Strawberry Fields rolled into a skyline that never quite resolved — colors bleeding into other colors, memory-made horizon.

John had his hands in his pockets, the same ironic half-smile on his face that could mean comfort or a knife. George kept his guitar slung low, fingers idly plucking a soft pattern. The garden’s light made everything look like film stock: overexposed, a little kinder.

“So what do we do here, then?” George asked. “We jam, we trade tall tales, and we… what? Wait around for the next gig?”

John stopped and looked at him. The smile sharpened. “No, George. That’s part of it, sure. But there’s a job. A duty.” He gestured with one hand as if conducting an invisible orchestra. “We’re not just players. We’re guardians.”

“Guardians?” George echoed.

“Yeah,” John said. “Guardian angels, if you like the old names. “Yes,” said John. “Guardian angels, if you prefer the old names. Every time some kid hears one of your melodies or one of your riffs and thinks maybe I can do that too? I can make a guitar howl as well, I also want to express something, I can also put music to my pain, you become their guardian, everytime a kid decides to quit —or to bury himself in drugs, or to throw away whatever talent he’s got — we get a look. We get a moment. We get to try.” He spoke the words casually, like naming a beat, but his eyes were serious. “We can go back. Disguised. As whatever we need to be.”

George let that settle. “Disguised how?”

“As anyone,” John said. “A busking bum playing on a corner. A bored music-store clerk who makes a point of smiling at the kid trying his first riff. A kid in the front row who claps too loud and makes the performer feel like the whole world’s watching. Anything that’ll keep the spark alive. We don’t look like we did when we were alive — not always — but sometimes we appear as we remember ourselves. It helps.” He shrugged. “Rules are loose. The point is to be there.”

George nodded, thinking of faces: the young guitarist who'd nearly stopped, the drummer who found courage, dozens of tiny lives redirected. “So we sneak in, nudge them, leave?”

“Sometimes a nudge is enough.” John’s voice softened. “Sometimes it takes a hundred small annoyances. Sometimes we have to become the very thing that scares them into trying harder.” He glanced at George. “And sometimes we fail. We all fail.”

A rustle in the Afterfields, like a microphone cable dragged over gravel. Out of the half-light emerged a figure with baggy, torn clothes and hair the color of clumsy sun — long, lank, a tiredness in his face that made the air thin. Kurt Cobain walked toward them, as if he’d shimmied out from the black-and-white of his favorite room and somehow taken the long way.

He stopped a few feet away, eyes immediately on George. For a second he seemed to shrink beneath the gravity of the name. “George… I—” his voice broke like a guitar string. “I’m really honored to meet you. The Beatles… your music… it helped me through—” He fumbled with his hands, unsure whether to mimic reverence or to laugh. “It taught me about songwriting. It gave me the courage to stop copying and try to be… me. To break something open and find a sound that was mine.”

John’s face went still. The ease that had been in his mouth evaporated; his eyes narrowed. For the first time since George had known him in this life and the next, there was something like a coal of resentment glowing in John’s stare.

“What are you doing here, kid?” John asked, voice flat. “You fed up with the afterlife too? Lookin’ for a gun or some other neat way out? We ain’t handing out ways to check out.”

Kurt flinched, hurt flashing across his features. “No—no, I— I’m not here to— I just wanted to say thanks. Your songs helped me. You helped me.” He looked at John like a child looking at a rock god.

John’s mouth twisted. Without another word he turned and walked away, heading toward a huge white manor that had materialized a few yards off — Georgian columns, long windows, the whole Ascot dream. George’s chest tightened; he knew that house instantly: Tittenhurst Park. The place where John had filmed an image of himself at a white grand piano, where small domestic images and big artistic ones had collided.

John disappeared inside with the curt, theatrical motion of someone entering a scene that had been set for him long ago. Kurt stayed where he was, shoulders folding inward, eyes pinched with sorrow. The shaggy man’s head drooped, and for a moment he looked young and beaten at once.

George stepped closer, putting a careful hand on Kurt’s shoulder. “What did he mean?” he asked quietly. “What’s between you and John?”

Kurt let out a laugh that was half-cry. “He was my guardian,” he said. “He tried. He came back as different people—busker, roadie, a bloke handing out flyers. He left clues. He’d show up with a hot coffee, smoke a cigarette outside a rehearsal room, talk about traveling, about being stubborn, about the banality of fame. He tried to teach me how to hold onto the music without letting everything else eat me. I thought I understood. I wasn’t listening.”

He looked at the ground. “I couldn’t make it out of the gray. I thought I could. I tried, but the gray—” He closed his eyes. “I died in the jaws of it. Or on the other end of the shotgun, if you want it blunt. I remember the last day like a flash of dull paper. I remember… wanting a different ending, but not having the map.”

George tightened his hand on Kurt’s shoulder. “And John—he blames himself?”

Kurt’s jaw tightened. “He blames the world. He blames the vultures. He blames me, too. Once I was gone, John kept saying it wasn’t fair—he’d been watching me, trying to pull me back, and he watched me slip.Once I was gone, John kept saying it wasn’t fair—that he died before he got to watch little Sean grow, and I died by my own accord, that I chose to throw everything away when I still had most of my life ahead of me.”

George listened, silence folding between them like a hymn. The Afterfields held its breath. Somewhere inside Tittenhurst a piano hummed an absent note.

“He’s angry,” George said finally. “Angry at the waste. Angry at the cruelty.”

Kurt nodded once, flat. “Yeah. And I—” He looked at John’s disappearing back. “I wish I’d heard him. I wish I’d listened. I thought I was immune. I thought the pain was the only honest thing. I didn’t realize the honest thing could also be a path out.”

George’s face softened, older and gentler than the mornings at Abbey Road had ever made him. “Then maybe we do the work you said — both of us. He reaches out, you reach back. We keep trying. That’s what guardians do: not just haunt the past, but stand in front of the kids who're about to fall.”

Kurt looked like he’d been offered a small, stubborn light. He took a breath that sounded younger. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll try. Even from here.”

“Good,” George said. “Come on. Let’s go find him.

Chapter Text

Chapter X – Electric Arrival

The first thing Janis noticed was the hum. Not voices, not applause, but that unmistakable buzz of an amp waiting for someone to strike a chord. She blinked against the light—bright stage lights, hanging in a sky with no ceiling, floating over nothing at all. A mic stand stood a few feet away, and at her back, a Marshall stack glowed, alive and restless.

Her bare feet padded across the stage. She reached out, fingers brushing the cool steel of the stand.

“Hello?” her voice echoed into the void. No crowd answered.

The hum deepened, bending into a note, then into another—like someone was coaxing the feedback into music. From the haze at stage left, a figure appeared. He was all shadow at first, then silhouette, then fire: the bandana, the curls, the left-handed Strat clutched like a weapon of love and war.

“Piece of My Heart,” Jimi said, grinning, as he bent the riff sideways into a psychedelic blues swirl.

Janis let out a rough laugh. “Hey, that’s my song, baby.“Hey, that’s my song, baby. You better be careful cuz if this is hell there's gottabe plenty of lawyers I can talk to about this,” she said, laughing.

He tilted his head, grinning wider. “Couldn’t resist. Thought I’d warm it up for you.”

She snorted, walking closer, the mic cable trailing behind her like a lifeline. “Warm it up? More like you’re trying to steal the damn thing.”

“Steal your spotlight? Naw,” he chuckled, running his fingers down the strings until they screamed like a shooting star, “afterlife’s finally giving us a gig with no critics, no promoters, no one to tell us what sells.”

Janis planted a hand on her hip, voice low and sly. “Yeah, but you’re still hoggin’ the stage, Hendrix.”

That made him laugh—big, easy, rolling out of him like thunder. He stepped back, gestured at the mic. “Then take it, Joplin. Stage is yours.”

She gripped the mic, closed her eyes, and let her voice rip—raw, cracked, burning with all the fire she’d carried with her into death. The notes shook the air, colliding with Jimi’s guitar, and the stage itself seemed to breathe, lights pulsing brighter with every phrase.

When the last line broke from her throat, she lowered the mic. “Damn,” she whispered, half to herself.

Jimi nodded slowly, solemn now. “That’s it. No chains on it here. No burnout, no pushing till you break.”

Her shoulders slumped, a shadow crossing her face. “Burnout’s all I ever knew. Like I was supposed to give ‘em everything, every night, until there was nothing left but scraps.”

He sat down on the stage, cross-legged, plucking soft, wandering notes. “Same trip for me. I thought I could play myself free. Instead I played myself into the ground.”

Janis lowered herself beside him, her laugh softer this time, more tired. “Ain’t that a bitch? We had all that glory, and none of the peace.”

They sat in silence, her rasp and his guitar filling the void. Finally, she looked at him, eyes brighter than the lights overhead.

“Maybe here, Jimi,” she said, voice breaking, “maybe here we just get to play.”

He smiled at that. “Yeah, Janis. Here, it’s just music. Just us.”

And with that, the amp behind them roared to life, a storm of color bursting from the stacks as their sound became the sky.

Chapter Text

Chapter XI: All Along the Watchtower

The last note of Piece of My Heart still lingered in the air like smoke, shimmering into silence. Janis caught her breath, her raspy laugh echoing across the void of the dreamlike stage.

“Well, Jimi,” she said, brushing her wild hair back, “what the hell do we do now?”

Hendrix grinned, adjusting his Strat.
“We’ve got all of eternity to figure that out. Only thing I know for sure? Through eternity, and whatever comes after it… I’ll keep making music.”

He plucked a single note, let it hang, then added more, weaving sound into something bigger. The stage beneath them trembled, blurred, and then—dissolved.

The void filled with a garden of sound. Fluorescent plants glowed neon blue and green, their light shimmering like stained glass. Trees twisted upward with branches shaped like guitars, and rivers of liquid firefly light flowed beside them, pulsing with every chord Jimi strummed. Fireflies of every color imaginable danced overhead, moving in rhythm with his music.

“Groovy, huh?” Jimi said with a chuckle. “Found out one thing about this place: you can make stuff with music. Or even without music, if you just focus hard enough.”

Janis’s eyes went wide. “Let me try that.” A bottle of Southern Comfort appeared in her hand.

—“God, I missed this so much,” said Janis. Before she could take a sip, Jimi conjured a microphone and began to play a familiar riff. His voice joined the music.
‘There must be some kind of way outta here…’

The ground shook. Out of nowhere, bricks and mortar swirled around them, circling faster and faster. Janis felt the earth beneath her feet lift, rising, shooting toward the sky at lightning speed. She squeezed her eyes shut.

When she opened them again, she stood inside a towering medieval watchtower. The stone walls were cool to the touch, the air sharp and ancient. Jimi leaned casually against the wall, grinning.

“There’s one more thing I wanna show you,” he said. “Look out that window.”

Janis frowned, but stepped toward the tall, arched opening. The second her eyes aligned with the window frame, the world tilted. Her sight stretched outward, rushing across space like a scope or binoculars.

And then she saw him.

David Niehaus. Her old flame. Lying on his bed back home in Rio de Janeiro. A photo album rested open in his lap, full of pictures of them—laughing, singing, clinging to one another like the world would end tomorrow. He was dressed in black trousers, a white shirt, and a black tie. A blazer lay tossed across the bed.

His sister stepped in, urgency in her voice. “We’re late. We need to hurry if we want to catch Janis’s funeral.”

Janis gasped, stumbling back from the window as if the sight had stabbed her straight in the heart—or whatever people carried with them in this strange afterlife.

“How… how was that possible?” she whispered.

Jimi’s face grew serious. “I’ve been here about a month. Still don’t know all the rules. But one day, I was missin’ my people bad. Real bad. So I started playing All Along the Watchtower. And then—this tower just appeared. Somehow, I was able to look in on them. Watch ‘em still living. Still carrying on.” He shrugged. “Haven’t figured out a way to reach them yet.”

Janis’s head spun. “So… that stage I woke up on, where we were playing—did you create that? With your guitar?”

“Nope,” Jimi said. “Wasn’t me. I was chillin’ by the beach I landed on when I first got here, smokin’ some purple haze, when a path opened up. Led me straight to that stage. And there you were—out cold, or asleep, couldn’t tell which—right in the middle. Figured I’d plug in and wake you with a few sweet licks. But before I could finish tuning, you were already clutching the mic.”

He gave her that sly Hendrix grin.
“I know you got a million questions. Let’s head to my place—I’ll try to answer what I can.”

The tower dissolved into light. In its place, a trail appeared, lined with tall, swaying palms. The salty tang of the ocean filled the air, warm and heavy. Janis felt sand swallowing her bare feet as they walked, the trees opening into a wide beach.

And there it was: a castle. Not stone, but sand. Gigantic walls sculpted with care, shimmering with iridescent seashells pressed into their surfaces, glinting like jewels in the sun.

Jimi gestured toward it with his guitar. “This is me. Make yourself at home.”

Janis laughed in disbelief. A sandcastle palace, glowing like something out of a kid’s dream. A massive archway yawned open in the front—no door, just a gap. She stepped toward it, bracing for whatever surreal surprise waited inside.

Jimi followed, the sand crunching softly under their feet as they disappeared into the shimmering castl

Chapter Text

Inside Hendrix’s sandcastle, the walls breathed a warmth that surprised Janis. She had expected something grand and psychedelic, maybe tapestries of stars or a cathedral of sound. Instead, the place felt more like a humble crash pad. A mattress on the floor, scattered records, a half-burned candle in the corner, and a blanket with cigarette holes draped over a chair. It wasn’t Jimi the myth, the guitar god of fire and fury. It was Jimi the man—private, fragile, human.

They sat cross-legged on the floor, the sand beneath them solid like stone. Jimi’s eyes darkened as he drew in a slow breath.

“Truth is,” he began, “I don’t remember the end too clear. I think I… asphyxiated. Choked on my own vomit. That’s the last thing I felt.” His voice cracked. “But when I woke up, I wasn’t here on no beach. I woke up somewhere else entirely.”

He told her of opening his eyes in a mansion he didn’t recognize—a dance hall alive with chatter and music, famous faces drifting in and out of the haze. The strangest thing was that no one seemed to hear him. He tried to call out, wave his arms, even grab hold of people. His hand passed straight through Mick Jagger like smoke.

“I realized I wasn’t part of that world no more,” Jimi muttered.

Janis leaned closer, listening as he described Keith Richards kissing Anita Pallenberg in the corner, Anita whispering that it was “too soon.” Brian’s shadow still hung heavy in the air. Jimi turned toward the pool outside and froze.

There, floating face-down, was Brian Jones.

Empty bottles littered the side table—whiskey, beer, and a spoon still dusted with the bite of heroin. The water shimmered with moonlight as Jimi heard a voice—not from the party, but deep inside his skull.

Save me, Jimi. Only you can do it. That’s why we brought you back. This is your test. Earn your second chance.

Without thinking, Jimi leapt into the pool. The body was stiff, heavy like a statue carved of lead. Yet it hadn’t sunk. Jimi’s arms trembled under the impossible weight as he tried to lift him, shouting for help.

The hall doors swung open. Nicky Hopkins and Ian Stewart stumbled out, drinks in hand, laughing.

“Christ, Brian,” Nicky chuckled, “not the brightest idea, mate—booze and a swim?”

Ian added, “Come on, man, stop mucking about.” They waded into the pool and, to Jimi’s disbelief, managed to drag Brian out easily. Soon the rest of the Stones came rushing in—Mick, Keith, Charlie, Bill—kneeling, slapping Brian’s face, calling his name. Guests crowded, whispering about ambulances and police.

But then, like smoke vanishing in the wind, the crowd melted away. Only Jimi and Brian remained.

Brian sat up, water dripping from his curls, and burst into a cruel, thunderous laugh. He rolled on the tiles, clutching his stomach.

“Man, you should’ve seen your face!” Brian cackled. “You thought you could save me, come back to life just by playing hero? We’re dead, mate. Dead and buried. Accept it!”

“You think that’s funny?” Jimi snapped.

Brian’s eyes glinted with venom. “Don’t overdosing make you laugh? It should—you croaked the same way I did. OD is our punchline, brother.”

Jimi’s fists clenched, but Brian only smirked. “You’re here because someone picked you. Mr. Johnson. He runs the club. Everyone gets greeted, that’s the rule. You’ll meet him soon enough.”

“Mr. Johnson?” Jimi asked.

Brian nodded. “The one who started all this. The first member of our little Club.

As Brian faded into mist, a path of sand stretched out before Jimi, guiding him to the beach where the sandcastle awaited.

Back in the present, Jimi finished his story. The candle flickered low. Janis sat in silence, hugging her knees.

“Mr. Johnson,” she whispered. “I don’t like the sound of this. What if we’re in over our heads? What if this ain’t just some afterlife paradise, but something darker? Something we can’t handle?”

Jimi didn’t answer. Outside, the ocean sighed against the shore, as if it knew more than either of them.

Chapter Text

"Indians scattered on dawn's highway bleedin'
Ghosts crowd the young child's fragile eggshell mind."
—The Doors, Peace Frog

Jim awoke in sand.

The desert stretched endless, purple twilight bleeding into the gold edge of dawn. The horizon shimmered, and each grain of sand seemed alive, shifting like water beneath his fingers. His breath came heavy, still tasting of wine, smoke, and the Paris night he’d left behind.

He sat up. The silence wasn’t silence at all—it pulsed, like a heart beating just under the skin of the world.

And then the sand rose.

From the dunes emerged a figure: half man, half coyote. His body was painted with ash and dust, his feathers were made of smoke, and his eyes burned like coals in the dying fire.

The Indian shaman. The spirit Jim had sworn entered him when he was a child, watching bodies sprawled on a highway after the car wreck. The one who had whispered to him all his life.

“I have always been with you, James.” The voice was deep, carried on the desert wind.
“I whispered in your ear, not to push you to destroy yourself… but to taste life deeply.”

Jim staggered to his feet, sand spilling from his leather boots. “All those voices—every time I pushed harder, drank deeper, loved wilder—I thought it was you calling me forward.”

The shaman’s expression was calm, sorrowful. “You misread the medicine. Chaos was not the gift. I wanted you to see beauty. To connect, to create, to love without fear. Not to drown in the fire.”

With a sweep of his smoky feathers, visions rose in the desert air like mirages:

Jim at a quiet desk, finishing the poems he abandoned.

Jim holding Pamela’s hand without breaking it with jealousy and rage.

Jim singing, not for conquest, but for communion.

Jim alive, older, softer, still walking, still learning.

Jim reached out, but the visions dissolved like smoke.

The sand trembled. From the horizon, the desert split open into two roads:

One glowed cool, silver-blue, leading into the hush of peace.

The other burned red, a road of fire and endless hunger.

The shaman’s coyote eyes fixed on him.

“Every soul chooses its path, even here. Will you walk toward the quiet river, or back into the flame?”

Jim looked at both roads. His chest rose and fell, the desert air harsh in his lungs. He wanted both—silence and song, peace and fire. He had always wanted everything.

The shaman touched his shoulder. “You are still my child of the highway. But now, James… you must decide what kind of ghost you will be.”

Jim closed his eyes. In the darkness behind them, he heard music, far away—the echo of guitars, laughter, a woman’s raspy voice. Somewhere beyond this desert, others were already playing.

And the desert waited for his choice.

Jim stared at the two roads, the desert winds hissing in his ears. The fire-road flickered like a lover’s dare, promising more chaos, more hunger. But the other… the silver-blue road… it pulsed with something he hadn’t felt in years. Calm. Rest. A chance to listen instead of scream.

His throat tightened. “All my life I went chasing the fire. Maybe… maybe it’s time I let myself cool down.”

He stepped forward, barefoot into the silver light.

The sand shifted beneath him, soft as water. The weight in his chest lightened, as if the desert itself sighed in relief.

The shaman bowed, feathers of smoke dissolving into the twilight.
“Then walk, James. Walk to peace. The fire will wait if you ever turn back. But now—you’ve chosen.”

Jim Morrison kept walking, the horizon glowing brighter with each step, until dawn broke wide across the endless desert.

Chapter Text

Chapter X – Starman

"There's a starman waiting in the sky..."
— David Bowie

David Bowie awoke to the hum of a thousand spotlights.
Not the roar of applause, not the thud of drums, but a low, endless vibration—like the universe itself was tuning an instrument.

He stood in a dressing room with no walls. Mirrors stretched forever in every direction, each reflecting a different version of himself. Feather boas and sequined jackets hung from invisible racks, glimmering in the cosmic dark. The air smelled faintly of makeup powder, cigarette smoke, and starlight.

When Bowie took a step forward, the mirrors rippled like water.
And from them, one by one, he emerged.

First came Ziggy Stardust, radiant and alien, his hair an ember, his eyes twin galaxies.
“Hello, love,” Ziggy purred, brushing cosmic dust off his shoulders. “Long time no see. Did you miss the stage lights?”

Then Aladdin Sane, lightning slashed across his face, twirling a cane like a blade.
“Miss it?” he sneered. “He lived for it. The chaos, the glitter, the scream of sound!”

The Thin White Duke appeared next, immaculate in black and white, his expression cold as marble.
“Please,” the Duke drawled. “He lived for control. For precision. For mastery. Emotion is for amateurs.”

A crash of laughter echoed through the void as Halloween Jack swung down from a broken neon sign, leather boots scraping sparks.
“Lighten up, you posh corpse,” Jack grinned. “We’re all he ever was—the freak, the rebel, the survivor in a dead-end world.”

From far above, a figure drifted down in slow, soundless motion—Major Tom, suspended in his cracked space helmet. His voice came through the static:
“Ground Control to David Jones… you spent your life escaping gravity, didn’t you? Escaping yourself.”

And finally, from the edge of the mirrorlight, stepped The Blind Prophet—pale, frail, eyes clouded and knowing. His voice was soft, yet it silenced the rest.
“You have come to the final station, David. The performance is over. The question remains—who are you when the lights go out?”

The other personas circled him, each shimmering with the colors of a different era, a different soul.
The Mysterious Voice, vast and formless, echoed through the room like a divine producer behind the curtain.

“You cannot pass beyond until you choose. Not as a mask, nor a myth, nor a melody. Choose who you are. The truth behind the music.”

Bowie’s hands trembled. His reflections multiplied—child, star, addict, father, wanderer, lover, alien. He looked at Ziggy, at the Duke, at Tom and Jack and the Prophet, and felt tears burn through the glitter.

“I wore you all,” he whispered. “To survive. To search. To sing. But I was never any of you.”
He took a breath, steady, final.
“I was David Jones. The boy who dreamed. The artist who tried to make the world feel less alone. That… is who I am.”

Silence fell.
Then, one by one, the personas smiled.
Ziggy bowed first, a star fading into dawn.
The Duke inclined his head in cold respect.
Jack clapped him on the shoulder with a wink.
Major Tom saluted before floating upward, dissolving into the constellations.
And The Blind Prophet whispered, “Then you are ready.”

The light around Bowie shifted—no longer stage light, but something deeper. Eternal.
He stepped forward, into the radiance.

Yet as he walked, he felt them beside him—Ziggy’s laughter in the stars, Aladdin’s rhythm in the pulse of creation, the Duke’s calm in the silence between notes.
They did not vanish.
They walked with him, within him, guides for whatever songs awaited on the other side.

Somewhere far ahead, a new chord rang out.
And Bowie smiled.