Chapter Text
Los Angeles looked nothing like the version Emily had built in her head. Too bright, too spread out. Like the city refused to stay inside a single frame.
The sun had turned the tour bus window warm against her shoulder, and she shifted slightly in her seat, absently adjusting the strap of the backpack at her feet. Someone a few rows behind her laughed at something on their phone while the tour guide's voice drifted through the overhead speakers, cheerful and practiced.
"And just up ahead, folks, we have the legendary Hayvenhurst estate..."
Emily leaned toward the window. She wasn't obsessed with celebrity homes.
She was just...
Curious.
Curiosity had always been her problem.
The bus slowed to a stop along the curb.
"If you'd like to step out for a few minutes and take pictures, this is one of our designated stops."
The reaction was immediate.
People stood, stretching after the drive. Phones and cameras appeared from bags and pockets. Conversations picked up as everyone shuffled toward the door.
Emily waited until the crowd had thinned before stepping outside.
The California heat hit her immediately. Hot and suffocating, like heavy air settling in her lungs.
She took a slow breath and looked up.
The gates were taller than she'd expected.
Black wrought iron, meticulously maintained, framed by old trees that cast shifting patches of shade across the pavement. Beyond them, she could only make out glimpses of the property itself—a long driveway disappearing into carefully landscaped gardens.
Private residence.
High security perimeter.
Limited visibility.
Intentional.
She wandered a few steps away from the group, studying the entrance more than the celebrity attached to it.
Someone nearby was attempting a selfie with the gates.
Another family was arguing over whether they could actually see the house through the trees.
Emily smiled faintly to herself. It was nice to see that, the togetherness.
Then something moved.
A child.
Small.
Maybe five or six.
He'd wandered away from his family and was chasing something along the edge of the road.
Emily's attention snapped into focus.
Not fear. Assessment.
Distance: too short.
Traffic: active.
Child awareness: nonexistent.
Reaction time: insufficient.
She looked toward the adults. No one had noticed, too busy snapping pictures on their phones.
The little boy took another step.
A car rounded the corner.
Too fast.
Emily was moving before she'd consciously decided to.
"Hey!" She shouted.
No response.
"HEY!" She yelled louder.
Someone turned toward her, finally. Just staring at the impending tragedy.
The child didn't.
Her shoes hit the pavement hard as she ran.
Heat rose from the asphalt.
Her brain stopped processing anything except numbers.
Distance.
Speed.
Timing.
Too late.
Too fast.
No time.
The world narrowed to sound. Her heartbeat, the scrape of her shoes against the road.
Someone shouting behind her.
The child finally looking up.
The scream of brakes.
Emily didn't think about herself.
That came later. Later, she'd wonder why she'd run without hesitation.
But in that moment, there was only motion.
She reached the little boy.
Grabbed him.
Shoved him back toward the curb with more force than she'd intended.
"MOVE!" The word tore itself out of her.
Then everything happened at once.
A flash of movement.
A collision.
The world tipping sideways.
Heat.
Light.
And then—
Nothing.
She woke up on grass.
That was the first thing she noticed.
Not pain.
Grass.
Cool against her cheek.
Soft.
Recently watered.
Her brain catalogued the details automatically, trying to make sense of something it couldn't understand.
Birds overhead.
A fountain somewhere nearby.
The faint scent of flowers.
She blinked.
Her vision sharpened slowly.
Shapes became edges.
Edges became people.
Then she heard a voice.
"Hey... don't move too fast."
Male.
Close.
Calm.
She turned her head carefully.
And stopped.
A few feet away, crouched down so he was closer to eye level, was Michael Jackson.
Not stage Michael.
Not magazine Michael.
Just...
A person.
He wore a loose white button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled to his forearms. One cuff had slipped lower than the other, like he'd rolled them up quickly and never bothered to fix it. Dark trousers. Black loafers dusted lightly with grass, as though he'd hurried outside.
His dark curls framed his face naturally.
He looked concerned.
Not panicked.
Just watching her carefully. Suddenly she realized she knew that face, had seen it countless times in videos. So Emily's brain did something deeply unhelpful.
It started comparing.
Facial structure, voice, height, public appearances.
Then immediately rejected the conclusion.
No. Absolutely not.
"You're okay," he said gently. "You just ran straight into me."
Emily blinked.
"I did what?"
"You ran into me." He said softly, like he was trying to not spook a mouse.
She attempted to sit up.
Pain answered immediately.
She stopped.
"That's not right."
Michael tilted his head.
"What isn't?"
She looked at him. Really looked at him, that face she thought.
"You look exactly like Michael Jackson."
A pause.
"I am Michael Jackson." He said, seemed proud of it too.
Emily stared. Then shook her head, nope she thought, really must have hit her head.
"No." She answered.
A small laugh escaped him.
"Okay."
"That's not something you say like that."
"How am I supposed to say it?"
"I don't know," she admitted. "But not like that."
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Small.
Amused.
Emily noticed.
Filed it away.
Her thoughts were still scrambled. He looked way too much like the real deal, as crazy as it sounded, she could only think of two reasonable explanations.
"What year is it?" She hesitantly asked.
"1988."
Emily frowned. Least likely explanation, but she expected that to come out of his mouth.
"No." She said, shaking her head.
Michael's expression shifted.
"No?" He raised an eyebrow questioning her.
"No, that's..." She stopped herself. She closed her eyes, 5 things you can feel, 5 you can hear, and on she questioned herself. It seemed like she was present, nothing felt out of place, besides the feeling of displacement.
Her head hurt. It still didn’t add up, time travel isn’t possible- the greatest minds couldn’t even crack it.
"That's impossible." Emily replied firmily.
"What year do you think it is?" He asked. Emily noticed that he was really starting to look amused, like they were playing some game.
She answered before she could stop herself. It wasn’t funny anymore.
"2026."
Silence.
Michael blinked.
Emily blinked back, he thinks she’s crazy, she could see it in his eyes.
Then she realized what she'd said, yeah to someone from 1988, that sounded crazy.
"...No." Emily said quietly to herself, thoughts going to fast to come up with a reasonable explanation.
Michael looked down for a moment before meeting her eyes again.
"You hit your head pretty hard."
"I don't think that's the problem." She rebutted. She knew head injuries- even if she was a bit disoriented she wasn’t nauseas or sensitive to the blazing sun of mid afternoon.
"What is the problem?" He asked, placing his hands in his pockets.
Emily looked around.
The gardens.
The fountain.
The gates she'd been standing outside.
The man in front of her.
Nothing made sense, there had to be some medical explanation why she was seeing a dead man, and a famous one at that. Maybe she ate something weird at breakfast or drank bad juice. Anything that would explain why Michael Jackson was standing not two feet from her.
"I think I'm either hallucinating or concussed." It had to be an hallucination of some kind, Emily knew it wasn’t a concussion, but she had to say something.
"Those are probably related." Michael said, nodding slowly.
Despite herself, Emily laughed. A short, disbelieving sound. She had figured it out, how could she have overlooked it.
"You're definitely an impersonator." She said only explanation left, that didn’t leave her panicking anyway. It made since she was on a Hollywood tour for God’s sake.
"I'm definitely not." He shook his head, looking like he wanted to laugh.
"A really good impersonator." Emily insisted. Come on man, she thought. Admit to it please.
"I get that a lot." Michael responded, nodding his head. Great this guy was going all in on his bit.
That earned another laugh from her. What if he wasn’t though? Emily knew that by now most impersonators would’ve asked for money
She was nervous and confused.
"Can you stand?" He asked quietly. Michael seemed to sense that she was about to break down.
Emily hesitated. Ok, she thought let's fix one problem.
Then tried.
Her legs immediately disagreed.
She swayed.
Michael stepped forward but didn't grab her.
She noticed that.
He stayed close enough to catch her if she fell but waited.
Giving her the choice.
Interesting, respectful, and patient. This was not looking good for her impersonator theory.
He held out a hand.
After a moment, she took it.
His grip was warm.
Steady.
Real.
And somehow that was more unsettling than anything else, it meant she for sure not hallucinating.
They walked slowly.
Emily's balance improved with each step.
The property stretched out around them.
She'd only seen glimpses through the gates before.
Inside was something else entirely.
The gardens were immaculate without feeling artificial. Flower beds lined the pathways, and old trees provided shade from the afternoon sun. The fountain she'd heard sat at the center of a circular drive, water catching the light.
The house itself came into view gradually.
Large.
Elegant.
White columns.
Tall windows.
A place that somehow felt grand without trying too hard.
Hayvenhurst.
The name surfaced in her mind before she could stop it.
Impossible.
She was still trying to convince herself she'd suffered some kind of poisoning or psychotic break when Michael led her toward the front door.
Inside, the house felt different than she'd expected.
Warm.
Lived in.
Family photographs lined the walls. Soft cream carpets muted their footsteps. Fresh flowers sat on polished tables. Sunlight poured through the windows, making the entire place feel bright and welcoming rather than intimidating.
Somewhere deeper in the house, she heard voices.
Laughter.
Music playing faintly from another room.
Then—
"Michael?"
A woman's voice.
Warm, gentle, certain.
She appeared a moment later.
Emily recognized her immediately.
Katherine Jackson.
She was elegant in a simple way, dressed neatly, her dark hair perfectly styled. There was kindness in her face, but also the unmistakable expression of a mother who noticed everything.
The impersonator theory worked, when it was just Michael Jackson she thought. But this seeing his Mother changed everything. What if she really was thrown back in time.
Her eyes moved from Michael to Emily in an instant.
"What happened?" Katherine asked, Emily noticed her eyes tightening as she took her in.
Michael answered first.
"She got hurt outside."
Katherine's attention settled fully on Emily. Emily whose heart rate, was starting to go through the roof. Not concussed, not hallucination, and not an impersonator.
"Oh, sweetheart." Katherine's voice turned incredibly soft, almost as if she could tell that one wrong move would send Emily reeling.
The words were so motherly that Emily almost forgot where and when she was.
"You look pale."
Emily opened her mouth.
"I think I might have a concussion." Easiest explanation for the two people in front of her.
Katherine nodded immediately.
"I think you might be right."
Emily looked at Michael.
Then back at Katherine. Emily knew she had to sell this explanation.
"There's two of you now." Emily said weakly
A beat.
Michael looked at his mother.
Katherine looked at Michael.
"I think she really hit her head," Katherine decided.
"I think you're right," Emily admitted.
To her horror, they both laughed.
Not at her.
Just with her.
Katherine smiled softly.
"Come inside, sweetheart." She beckoned.
Emily looked behind her then, back toward the front gates.
Toward the street where she'd been standing.
Nothing looked familiar anymore.
"I don't think I should." She whispered, going in would mean accepting what was happening as reality.
Michael frowned.
"Why?"
Emily looked back at the house.
Then at him.
"...Because if I come inside, I think this becomes real."
Neither of them answered immediately. Both looking a little confused at Emily’s words.
Katherine walked over to her.
Not quickly.
Not wanting to startle her.
She reached out and gently touched Emily's arm.
"If you're frightened," Katherine said softly, "you don't have to be frightened by yourself."
Something in Emily's chest tightened unexpectedly. It had been a long time since anyone had tried to comfort her and she'd known this woman for less than five minutes.
She'd also apparently been invited into the Jackson family home by Michael Jackson, who might still be the world's most convincing impersonator. God she was hoping that was it, and not her suddenly being thrown decades in the past.
"This is a very strange day," Emily managed.
Michael nodded.
"I was thinking the same thing."
That made her laugh again; at least the impersonator has jokes.
Then Katherine opened the front door.
"Come inside, sweetheart," she said. Emily swallowed hard, ‘ok’ she thought this is really happening, time to cowgirl up.
"We'll figure everything out." Katherine said, leading the way.
Emily wasn't convinced that was possible. It looked increasingly like she’d been dropped in a different time, where technology was considered ancient.
But she followed them anyway. ‘In for a penny, in for a pound,’ she thought.
And in the pocket of her jeans, unnoticed by anyone, her phone sat at eighty-two percent.
Still charged.
Still silent.
Still waiting.