Chapter Text
West Hollywood, CA ♫ ࣪ ˖ August 7th, 1982
It was 5:25 in the morning, and Michael had been sitting at the piano bench all night, making melodies out of the keys, shaping an instrumental that shimmered with possibility.
The room was thick with fatigue—engineers slumped in their chairs, assistants stifling yawns, maintenance staff dragging their feet. The air smelled faintly of stale coffee and the hum of the tape machines faintly lingered.
But Michael wasn’t tired. He thrived in these hours.
His fingers stayed on the piano keys for a while before he started tapping lightly on the keys, his body swaying with the rhythm only he could hear.
“Think we should call it a night?” he asked, flashing Quincy Jones a sheepish grin.
Quincy stared at him, irritation flickering across his face. He rubbed his temples, sighing. “Michael, it’s five in the morning. What do you think?”
Michael chuckled softly, leaning back from the piano. “Well, if you guys are tired… I guess we should.”
One of the engineers groaned from his chair. “Finally! I thought you’d keep us here until sunrise.”
Michael laughed, “Sorry about that,” shaking his head. “You know me—always getting carried away when it comes to music.”
“Carried away?” Quincy gave him a pointed look. “You’ve been at that piano for six hours straight.”
Michael shrugged, his grin widening. “That’s just when the magic happens.”
As he stood, he moved through the studio with quiet grace, offering each staff member a thank you and a gentle goodbye.
“Good night, Brad. I appreciate your hard work,” he said to one of the engineers, patting him on the shoulder.
And to another, “Thank you for bearing with me for this long. I know it’s not easy.”
A maintenance worker chuckled tiredly. “You’re the only one who says that every time, Michael.”
Michael smiled warmly. “Well, it’s important. You guys make this possible.”
Quincy shook his head. “You’re unstoppable, you know that?”
Michael adjusted his jacket, his eyes still bright despite the hour. “Unstoppable? Probably. But it’s only because I’ve got all of you with me.”
One of the engineers, half-asleep in his chair muttered; “Man, I don’t know how you do this, I can barely keep my eyes open.”
That alone let a little laugh out of Michael.
“That’s because you’ve been working hard. Every note and melody we manage to compose tonight is all because of you guys.”
Quincy raised an eyebrow. “Michael, do you ever think about slowing down? Just a little?”
“Slow down?” Michael tilted his head, “Quincy, music doesn’t sleep. Inspiration doesn’t wait until morning.”
And if I don’t work on my idea the moment I get it; God might give it to Prince...
Another assistant added on as she packed up cables, “Well… maybe inspiration should buy us some coffee next time.”
Michael chuckled, giving her a playful nod. “Deal. Coffee’s on me tomorrow night.”
Quincy sighed, rubbing his temples again. “Tomorrow night?! Don’t tell me you’re already planning another all‑nighter!”
Michael’s grin widened. “If the music calls, I’ll answer.”
The room filled with tired laughter, a mix of exhaustion and admiration.
Michael moved toward the door, pausing to wave at everyone. “Thank you, all of you. Get some rest. We’ll make more magic once again soon.”
Quincy shook his head, smiling despite himself. “You’re impossible, Michael.”
Michael glanced back, his voice soft but certain. “Impossible? No, not really. Just… practical.”
When Michael finally stepped outside, the studio doors gave way to a sharp gust of wind. The chilly breeze wrapped around him like a cold hand, a reminder that dawn was beginning to break and the city was waking in slow, reluctant breaths.
He pulled his jacket tighter and started walking toward the parking lot, the soles of his loafers scuffing against damp concrete.
A lamp by the entrance caught his eye—its light stuttering in uneven bursts, as if it were trying to remember how to glow. It flickered stubbornly, the light inside trembling like it had a heartbeat.
Michael paused, he was drawn to it with the same curiosity he had towards a half‑formed melody. He tilted his head, studying the lamp the way he would if he couldn’t form a continuation for a lyric.
He walked over, fingers brushing the cool metal casing. “Come on,” he murmured to himself than to the lamp, and gave the bulb a gentle tap.
The light steadied, bathing the entrance in a fragile, steady glow. Michael smiled faintly, the corner of his mouth lifting. “There you go,” he said, pleased with what he’s done.
He took two steps away, then stopped. The light faltered again, sputtering like a breath caught in the throat.
Michael frowned and turned back, the smile slipping. He reached out and pressed his fingers against the cold metal once more, as if he could steady it by touch alone.
The instant his skin met the lamp, the world stopped. Sound thinned out into a distant hum; the studio doors behind him blurred and dissolved like smoke. The pale wash of dawn faded into absolute black.
For a heartbeat, he felt weightless, as if the city itself had inhaled and held its breath.
When his vision returned, he was no longer standing outside Westlake Studios. He was in a narrow alley, the kind of place that smelled of old rain and rust and the sour tang of metal left too long in the open.
The air was damp and heavy; A dim streetlight stood at the far end of the alley, its light weak and yellow, casting long, uncertain shadows.
He whispered to himself, voice trembling, “Where… am I..?”
Michael’s eyes darted across the alley, the silence was pressing down on him. It didn’t take long for the truth to sink in—this wasn’t anywhere near Westlake Studios. He was somewhere else entirely.
“Hello?” he called, his voice small against the close walls. It came out hoarse.
The alley answered with a drip from a loose gutter and the skitter of something small in the shadows.
No footsteps, no voices. Just the steady, indifferent drip.
He ran his hand through his hair, feeling like he was tasting iron on his tongue from how cold it was.
For a moment he simply stood there, letting the reality of the place press in on him.
Then, he took a cautious step forward, the sound of his footsteps echoing too loudly in a puddle.
Suddenly, it hit him; he wasn’t wearing a disguise. No hat, no aviators, nothing that could shield him from recognition.
Michael froze, his breath catching in his throat. A whisper slipped out; half of it being disbelief and the other half being dread.
“...Right.”
The word hung in the air. Michael rubbed his arms against the chill, suddenly aware of how exposed he felt.
Then, faint voices drifted from the far end of the alley. They sounded muffled and distorted, like whispers trapped behind padded walls.
Michael’s body tensed. He spun toward the sound too quickly, the echo of his movement bounced off the damp bricks. For a split second, he considered bolting out of there. If those voices belonged to people, they couldn’t see him like this.
The clouds started to turn gray as the rain started intensifying. Water ran in thin rivers along the bricks, soaking through the hem of his jacket and seeping in through his skin. He had nothing else—no hat, no umbrella, no disguise to hide him from anyone who could recognize him immediately.
He needed to move.
Michael scanned the alley with quick glances: a rusty fire escape ladder clinging to a building, a narrow doorway hidden beneath an awning, a dumpster lid that might offer a momentary shield. The voices at the far end had grown louder, indistinct syllables swallowed by the rain, and somewhere beyond them a car passed.
He pulled his jacket tighter around his shoulders and stepped off the wall where he’d been pressed, each footstep being careful and soft.
The cold was getting to him, and for a second he thought of simply running straight for the streetlight at the alley’s end.
But his instincts told him to be smarter than that. He crouched, edged toward the shadow of a doorway, and with a quick motion; he grabbed the door handle and twisted it open. It wasn’t much, but it gave the opportunity for him to hide from people and the rain.
As he slid into the doorway, the muffled voices disappeared. Michael pressed his back to the wall; the other side of the handle still clutched in his hand as if it were an anchor.
He let out a long, shaky exhale and tried to steady himself, listening for anything that might tell him where he’d landed. All he heard was the fast drip of rainwater from a loose gutter and a faint sound of a car passing by that was being drowned out by the rain, which felt both near and impossibly distant.
He scanned the narrow hallway with a careful, practiced eye, searching for any clue. A flowerpot on top of a nightstand, a stairway with rusty handrails, and a fire exit sign’s lights about to give out.
Then, his gaze locked on a calendar tacked to a battered door to his right, its edges curled and stained. The sight of it convinced him enough to look at its contents.
Michael stepped closer and read the contents softly, slow and deliberate. The past days had checkmarks on it, as if it was like a countdown to something. There was a specific date that didn’t have a check.
The empty space in the calendar seemed to seem unreal before his eyes.
August 7th.
Okay, cool, it’s still the same day.
But then something caught Michael’s eye. The number printed at the top right corner of the calendar looked odd and wrong at the same time.
He leaned in, squinting at the digits.
2026.
Michael’s stomach dropped. “What?!”
He blinked hard, rubbed his eyes and then read it again as if repetition might rearrange what he was seeing. It was still there.
August 7th… 2026.
2026?
No, it can’t be.
Michael let out a chuckle, he’s not believing what he’s seeing right now.
The last time he’d checked the date it had been 1982. He was composing a few melodies for the Thriller album a few hours ago. There’s no way he’s somehow forty-four years into the future right now.
His breath started quickening. Forty-four years? The thought clawed at him. It sounded absurd and impossible. Yet. the longer he stared at it, the more it rooted itself in his mind. He pressed his palms against his temples, shaking his head violently thinking he could shake the truth back into place.
“No… no, no… I’m not here. I can’t be here.” His voice cracked, rising into the empty hallway. The rain hammered harder, drowning his words out—but he kept muttering fragments of denial as if they were broken lyrics.
He stumbled back from the calendar, his legs shaking. Michael’s chest started to tighten. His thoughts tangled into a frantic loop; 1982. Westlake Studios. Quincy. The promised coffee. Forty–four years. All gone.
Michael tried standing up, but the ground beneath him seemed like it was fragile, as if it might collapse with every step he takes. He let out another chuckle, but it was jagged and shaky.
“I was… No… no, I was just—” His voice cracked yet again, slowly breaking into a sob that twisted into another laugh. He staggered back, his eyes were darting towards a stairwell hoping it’d explain what had happened.
Michael’s thoughts started spiraling faster: If it’s 2026… then everything’s gone. The recordings, the studio… My family. My life… I’ve lost it all.
His breathing turned ragged, panic started clawing at his throat. He pressed his back against the wall, sliding down until he was almost sitting down onto the floor.
“I can’t… I can’t be here.” The words broke apart as they left his mouth.
Michael’s vision started to blur. The hallway started twisting in on itself, the calendar’s date burned into his mind. He clutched onto what was near him, hoping it’ll calm him down.
He tried to wrap his head around what's happening as an attempt to calm down. The hallway is real, the stairways are real. His brain clung onto the details, desperate for something solid: Cream-colored walls, dim lighting, a stairway that seemed like it was climbing forever, and a faint citrus scene lingering in the air.
It isn’t a dream.
“Okay... this is real,” his voice was trembling as he muttered those words out. “The walls are real, the stairs are real.” It was the first thing his mind insisted on.
It’s too realistic for something like this.
Michael’s breath came in ragged bursts, but he forced himself to steady it. He pressed his palms against the wall, grounding him in the reality of the hallway. The citrus scent lingered, faint but oddly calming.
“If everything’s real… then my family must be real too.” he whispered, voice still trembling but slowly regaining strength. “Mother.. My brothers. My sisters. They’re out there somewhere.”
The panic in his chest loosened, which was now replaced by a hint of resolve. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, stood up and straightened his jacket.
He couldn’t let the fear consume him.
Especially not now.
Not if there was even the slightest chance his family was alive in this strange, yet impossible future.
Michael drew in a deep breath, whispering to himself like he just made himself a vow. “I’ll find them. No matter where I am, I’ll find them.”
The hallway stretched on, but at the far end he noticed something different. It was a fire exit. Michael walked towards it, hoping it’ll lead him to the streets.
He reached the end of the hallway and pushed against the door. It swung open with a loud creak, and he was instantly blinded.
Daylight poured in. He squinted, raising a hand to shield his eyes. The brightness was almost painful after his eyes struggled to adjust after exiting the dim corridor. But then, it clicked again: he doesn’t have a disguise on.
“People won’t know it’s me… right...?” he whispered to himself.
Michael lingered at the threshold, his hand holding onto the doorframe—unsure whether or not he should take a step. The silence was getting too loud, it seemed like it was urging him to stay hidden.
He finally stepped outside.
The cold breeze of dawn hit him at first, it was sharp. He blinked rapidly to adjust his eyes to the brilliance that greeted him. The world had transformed into something he didn’t expect to see. The streets were starting to get busy, tall buildings that seemed to dominate the ones he knew back in 1982.
For a second, Michael shivered from how cold it was. Just from how bright it was, it was almost painful for his eyes. He inhaled deeply, the air had a faint smell of smoke, yet it felt calming considering the fact that he was just spiraling five minutes before this.
“Alright, this is real. It really is.” he murmured, which was steadier than it was before. He gazed upon the unfamiliar streets, the streetlights turning off slowly and a faint hum of a city waking up.
Everything looked different—modern, strange, yet undeniably alive.
Michael adjusted his jacket once more, tugging at the collar as if it could protect him from recognition. His eyes caught on to some movement, a civilian started walking steadily down the street, heading straight in his direction.
His stomach dropped. Panic started to surge inside him, which was almost immediate.
What if they know it’s me? What if they see me?
His breath started to quicken, chest tightening as the figure drew closer. He pressed his hands into his pockets as an attempt to shrink himself into anonymity.
The civilian’s footsteps echoed against the pavement, each one sounding like a drumbeat of dread. Michael’s mind started racing.
My face, my voice, my music. What if this person stops? What if they ask? What if they stare?
He braced himself, every nerve screaming for him to turn away to hide. But he didn’t move. He couldn’t, even if he forced himself to.
And then—nothing.
The civilian passed him without a single glance, eyes fixed ahead. It’s as if Michael were just another stranger. No recognition, no pause to look at him, no whisper of his own name.
Michael stared at the civilian who just walked past him out of shock. His panic faltered, which was quickly replaced with confusion. He watched the civilian slowly disappear into the street.
“They… didn’t know me?” he whispered. For a moment, he almost laughed, it was too early for that.
Michael looked around for a moment, and it started clicking. The world looked completely different. New buildings, unfamiliar streets, signs that he couldn’t even recognize. Yet, the people moved through it casually as if it was just normal to them.
To them, it seemed like Michael was just no one.
“Alright, first things first… I might as well try to call Hayvenhurst’s landline…” he whispered to himself, clutching his jacket once more.
He scanned the street, even though the structures ahead of him still looked foreign and odd for him. Michael spotted another civilian nearby. With hesitant steps, he approached the young man, his voice was low and uncertain.
“Excuse me… Could you tell me where the nearest payphone is?”
The man looked at him with a puzzled look, then shook his head with a faint smile. “Payphones? Those aren’t really a thing anymore. They were disconnected in this area a decade ago. People use cellphones nowadays.”
Michael blinked, the words hit him harder than expected.
Cellphones? What?
His mind started to scramble to the thought of that.
Phones… in pockets? Phones without wires?
He pictured the phone back at Hayvenhurst having a rotary dial, the receiver pressed against his ear, a long cord tangling at his feet. That was what a phone was to him. What he just heard sounded like something out of science fiction.
He forced an uneasy laugh, “Right… of course. Cellphones…”
The phrase sounded foreign in his mouth, like he was speaking a language he hadn’t learned.
The man continued walking on, leaving Michael standing alone in the streets. He turned his gaze towards the city—billboards flashing with digital screens, people tapping glowing devices in their hands, cars passing by with a sleekness he couldn’t even recognize.
Michael’s eyes locked onto a woman’s phone in her hand. She tapped the screen with a quick, practiced motion like she knew what she was doing. He looked at another person, they were holding another phone in their hand.
His chest started to tighten again, panic threatening to claw its way back.
Is.. is this what the world has become? Everyone carries their own phones around? No payphones, no landlines…
Beneath the panic, a spark of awe flickered. “They can talk to anyone… anywhere… without wires.”
The thought was terrifying, yet astonishing to him.
“If this is what the future has become, then I’ll do anything to adapt to it.”
Michael started walking around the sidewalk, trying to get used to the area. The morning breeze rushed against him, carrying the hum of cars, the chatter of strangers.
It was no surprise that he was struggling to adjust to the strange new world around him. Suddenly, a kid bounded up to him, eyes wide with excitement.
“Woah! Your cosplay of Michael Jackson looks so accurate!” the kid exclaimed, grinning with pure joy. “You look just like him!”
Michael froze, staring at the boy with confusion. His lips parted, but no words came out. Cosplay..? The term rattled in his head. It sounded foreign once again.
The kid tilted his head, still smiling. “Hey, can you do the moonwalk for me? That would be so sick!”
Michael blinked twice, his expression quickly turning into disbelief. “Moon… walk..?” he repeated, the word was heavy with bafflement. He looked genuinely lost now.
A woman hurried over, she placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. Her voice was warm and apologetic.
“I’m so sorry.” she said quickly, glancing at Michael with an embarrassed smile. “My son gets a little too excited sometimes. He didn’t mean to bother you.”
Michael blinked at her, confusion was really etched into his face. He tried to speak up, but not a single word came out of him again.
The mother continued, her tone of voice was kind. “He’s a big fan of Michael Jackson. When he saw you, he thought you were dressed up like him.” She explained softly. “I hope he didn’t upset you.”
Michael’s brow furrowed, his confusion just kept on getting deeper. “Michael… Jackson?” he repeated, as though his own name was foreign to him. His eyes darted between the mother and the boy, his expression of disbelief was still visible.
The boy looked down, suddenly sad. “Sorry, mister. I really thought you were cosplaying."
Just before the small child and mother began to walk away, Michael crouched down slowly. He opened his arms slightly, offering the boy a hug.
The child blinked in surprise, then glanced up at his mother. She gave him a small nod. He stepped forward, wrapping his arms around Michael.
Michael held him gently, his voice was soft. “You’re very… kind.” he whispered, even though his mind was still repeating the words cosplay and moonwalk over and over.
The boy pulled back with a big grin on his face. “Thank you, mister. You really act like him too.”
Michael’s chest tightened. He wanted to tell the kid so, so bad but the words tangled in his throat. Instead, he just smiled and gave him a small nod.
The mother gave him a sympathetic smile. “Thank you for being so kind to him. We’ll let you be now.”
She gently took her son’s hand and they walked away, leaving Michael still crouched down on the sidewalk.
And just like that—they were gone.
Michael was left alone in the middle of the streets again, still baffled and shaken from what just happened.
The words echoed in his mind.
Cosplay. Moonwalk. Michael Jackson.
He whispered to himself again, “They don’t… know. They don’t know it’s me…”
A few minutes passed by, and Michael kept walking the streets. His throat was dry and dizziness was slowly catching up to him because of dehydration.
He muttered under his breath, “I haven’t had any water in hours now…”
“Um… do local restaurants give out free water..?”
The thought twisted into panic almost immediately. He patted the pockets of his jacket and felt nothing. That’s when it hit him; he doesn’t have his wallet with him.
Agh, how am I supposed to eat?
He shook his head, whispering firmly, “No, wait—I can’t just beg in the streets. I have to do something… Something that’ll make people give me money.”
For a minute, it seemed like he was hesitating. He really had to think of a solution quickly.
Dancing?
“No, wait, too risky.”
Singing?
“That’s riskier than the other…”
Instruments?
“I only know the basics… it’s not enough to impress anyone.” His voice trailed off, frustration gnawing at him.
Still, he had to try. Michael looked around for any restaurants or diners nearby and quickly found one. It looked like it wasn’t getting customers often.
By the time Michael walked over to the restaurant’s door, he was almost hesitating whether or not he should open the door.
He pushed open the door of a small restaurant, the cold air rushing against him. A faint smell of roses lingered in the air, the lights had a comforting look to the eye, and music was playing throughout the entirety of the restaurant.
Michael looked towards an empty chair and quickly walked towards it to sit down. It didn’t take long until a waitress showed up at his table.
“Good morning, sir. What can I get you?”
Michael was startled; he looked up almost immediately. “Oh… Um, could I just have a glass of water?”
The waitress blinked, then smiled kindly. “Of course. One moment.”
Relief washed over him as the waitress agreed to his request. Michael exhaled sharply, clutching his chest as if he went through the five stages of grief just now.
A minute later, she returned with a glass of water. Michael took it gratefully and drank it immediately. “Thank you.” His voice was steadier now.
The waitress smiled politely. “Do you want anything else?”
Michael stared at her for a long second. Finally, he shook his head. “Oh, no… I’m good.”
“Alright then,” she said warmly, “If you ever change your mind, just call one of us over and we’ll take care of you.”
She turned to leave but paused. She was studying Michael closely now. Her eyes lingered with a curious look. “Sorry, but… has anyone ever told you that you look a lot like Michael Jackson?”
Michael froze at the sound of his own name. His breath caught, and he forced an awkward laugh. “I… I get that a lot. Thank… you?”
“I see.” The waitress replied with a small nod, before walking away.
Michael sat there, staring into the empty glass. He whispered under his breath, “Gee, that’s the second time someone’s told me that I look like myself now…”
He took a few seconds to regain his composure after what had happened. He muttered under his breath, “Now that I’m hydrated… I need money.”
His eyes darted toward the street outside, where people moved with purpose, phones glowing in their hands.
Michael clenched his fists, whispering like a vow: “I’ll figure it out. I have to.”