The ritual of intermission unfolded with clockwork precision at the Hammersmith. As the band left the stage to thunderous applause, Jim's body executed the practiced choreography of a professional manager—directing the crew, checking sound levels, confirming the encore sequence—while his mind wandered in its own discordant loop of conflicting memories.

  He navigated the backstage corridors, each turn somehow both new and familiar, like déjà vu that refused to fade. The polished floor beneath his oxfords reflected the overhead lights, unmarred by the sticky beer residue that had clung to his shoes at the Marquee. Here, staff in pressed grey uniforms wiped down surfaces between every performance, leaving behind the faint chemical scent of industrial cleaner.

  The temperature shifted as Jim approached the green room—the cool draft from air conditioning vents gave way to the humid warmth of bodies packed into a confined space. Fluorescent tubes buzzed overhead, casting everyone in a sickly pallor that deepened the shadows under eyes and flattened complexions. The light pulsed almost imperceptibly, a subtle flicker that made Jim blink as he paused at the threshold.

  "Water, Mr. Beach?" A stagehand materialized beside him, pressing a cold glass bottle into his palm before he could respond.

  Jim's fingers closed around it, the sudden chill against his skin pulling him back to the present moment. Droplets of condensation slid down the green glass and between his fingers as he turned the bottle, studying the gold foil label—not the paper cups of tepid tap water from the Marquee, but imported Italian mineral water in thick glass. He twisted the cap, hearing the soft hiss of carbonation escaping, and took a sip. The water tasted of limestone and distant mountains, so cold it made his teeth ache.

  Through the half-open green room door drifted the muffled sounds of the auditorium—not the crushing wall of noise from the Marquee's packed bodies, but the controlled hum of seated patrons moving to concession stands, murmuring about the performance. Fragments of conversation floated toward him:

  "—best I've heard Brian's guitar sound—"

  "—never thought they'd play 'Keep Yourself Alive'—"

  "—worth every penny of the ticket price—"

  Jim pushed the door wider, stepping into a proper green room that made the Marquee's backstage area look like a broom cupboard. Buttery leather armchairs and sofas replaced the Marquee's splintered wooden crates. Silver platters of fresh fruit, sandwiches cut into precise triangles, and an assortment of pastries lined tables draped in crisp white linen. The air held a mixture of brewing coffee, expensive cologne, and the metallic tang of adrenaline that always accompanied a successful first half.

  Jim scanned the room, cataloging each band member with the automatic thoroughness that had made him an effective manager. He searched for discrepancies, anomalies, anything that might explain the impossible overlay of memories crowding his mind.

  Freddie paced by the window, five steps one way, turn, five steps back, a contained tiger conserving energy. His silk shirt clung to his shoulders, damp with exertion but not soaked through as it had been at the Marquee. A wardrobe assistant hovered nearby with a measuring tape, trying to catch him between circuits.

  "The jacket's too tight here," Freddie said, rolling his shoulder and wincing slightly. He pinched the fabric at his upper arm. "When I reach for the high note in 'Who Wants to Live Forever,' it feels like I'm about to split the bloody seam."

  "I can let it out a centimeter, Mr. Mercury," the assistant said, stepping closer with her tape.

  "Make it two, darling. I need to breathe up there." Freddie stretched his arms outward in a theatrical wingspan that would have sent drinks flying in the Marquee's cramped quarters.

  Brian occupied an armchair in the corner, the Red Special balanced across his knee. His fingers moved over the strings with a surgeon's precision, his head tilted toward the instrument as he made infinitesimal adjustments to the tuning pegs. The perpetual furrow between his brows had softened, replaced by the relaxed focus of a craftsman in his element.

  "James," Brian said, glancing up at his guitar tech. "Listen to this harmonic." He touched the string at the twelfth fret, producing a crystalline tone that seemed to hover in the air. "Do you hear that overtone? It's responding to the room somehow."

  The technician leaned closer. "The theatre was built in '32. All those curved plaster surfaces."

  "Fascinating acoustics," Brian murmured, already lost again in his adjustments, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Like playing inside a giant violin."

  Roger sprawled across a sofa, one leg hooked over the armrest, drumsticks still clasped loosely in his right hand. He tapped an erratic rhythm against his thigh while an untouched cup of tea cooled on the side table. His blond hair stuck up in damp spikes, and he'd removed his sweat-soaked shirt, leaving him in just a white tank top.

  "Sound's not half bad tonight," he remarked to the ceiling. His drumsticks never stopped moving, the tapping like a background pulse. "Almost makes up for that bloody awful hotel bed. Feel like I've been sleeping on a park bench."

  Most striking was John, perched at a small writing desk in the far corner. At the Marquee, he'd been nearly invisible, a shadow flitting between equipment cases. Here, he leaned toward the sound engineer seated opposite him, animated in a way Jim couldn't reconcile with his memories.

  "The sub-bass is bleeding into the mid-range," John was saying, sketching something on a notepad. "Listen for it during 'Another One Bites the Dust.' We need to adjust the crossover here—" His pencil tapped the paper. "Tighten up the bottom end."

  The sound engineer nodded, reaching for the notepad. "We'll recalibrate before the second half."

  Jim's hand tightened around the water bottle. These weren't just performers adapting to a different venue. These were altered versions of people he knew intimately—more assured, more established. Yet unmistakably the same individuals, with core mannerisms intact. Like meeting old friends who'd changed during a separation he couldn't remember.

  The door hinges creaked behind him. Jim turned, his pulse quickening as Claudia appeared in the doorway, a laminated VIP pass hanging from a lanyard around her neck. The silver crown pendant at her throat caught a shaft of light, throwing a momentary prismatic reflection across the wall.

  "Mr. Beach," she said, her voice cool and professional. "Might I have a quick word about the VIP arrangements for the second half?"

  Behind her, Jim glimpsed Jay craning his neck to peer into the green room, eyes wide as a child at Christmas. Bob's hand clamped firmly on Jay's shoulder, pulling him back into the corridor with quiet authority.

  "Of course," Jim replied, surprised by the steadiness of his voice when his fingers had gone numb around the water bottle. "Let's step over here." He gestured toward a stack of equipment cases that offered a semblance of privacy.

  As Claudia moved toward him, a subtle waft of perfume reached him—warm vanilla underneath something spicy and complex. The scent triggered a cascade of fragmented memories, each clearer than the last.

  "Your guests enjoying themselves?" Jim asked once they were relatively isolated.

  "For the most part." Her dark eyes held his, unwavering. "Though Jay is... enthusiastic. Your security people have been remarkably patient."

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  "We're accustomed to all types." The professional response came automatically while his thoughts raced ahead.

  Claudia glanced over her shoulder, checking they weren't overheard, then took a half-step closer. "We've done this before, haven't we?" Her voice dropped to just above a whisper.

  Jim's mouth went dry. "According to my memories, yes," he said quietly, maintaining a neutral expression for anyone who might look their way. "Though I seem to be the only one who remembers."

  "I remember the Marquee," she said, fingers finding the crown pendant, turning it in a circular motion—a gesture he somehow recognized though he couldn't recall seeing it before. "The ceiling was water-damaged in the back right corner. The men's toilet had that broken lock. We spoke at the bar."

  Jim's shoulders loosened, the tightness in his chest easing for the first time since waking in the unfamiliar flat. "You told me to remember my dreams."

  "And now here we are." Her lips curved slightly. "Though I'm still not certain which is the dream."

  "They're both too real," Jim said, lowering his voice as a stagehand passed nearby with a guitar case. "Too detailed to be imagination. I remember the exact pattern of burn marks on the mixing desk at the Marquee. The way the third channel fader stuck halfway up."

  "The dressing room with that ancient sofa," Claudia added. "The one with the spring poking through the left cushion."

  "The fuse box that kept tripping during sound check."

  "Roger complaining about the ceiling being too low for his cymbal work."

  With each detail they exchanged, the knot in Jim's stomach loosened. These weren't the vague impressions of a dream but precise, shared memories, down to physical sensations and environmental details.

  "Has this happened to you before?" Jim asked, searching her face. "This... jumping between places?"

  Something flashed in her eyes—caution, perhaps, or calculation. "Not exactly like this," she said carefully. "But I've experienced moments where time doesn't flow quite the way it should."

  The phrasing sent a prickle up Jim's neck—the exact words she'd used at the Marquee. Before he could probe further, Claudia reached into her pocket.

  "Mint?" she offered, extending her palm to reveal a small white tablet.

  The abrupt change threw Jim momentarily, but he accepted it without thinking. The mint felt cool and slightly rough against his fingertips as he placed it on his tongue. Sharp peppermint exploded across his palate, clearing his head with its astringent intensity.

  "We should talk properly after the show," Claudia said, her demeanor shifting back to professional as one of the wardrobe assistants approached. "About the VIP arrangements for upcoming dates."

  "Yes, of course," Jim matched her tone seamlessly. "Wembley might present some interesting possibilities."

  Claudia maintained her composed expression, but her pupils dilated at the mention of Wembley. "That would certainly be an experience," she replied carefully. "I'll look forward to discussing it."

  As she turned to leave, Jim's hand rose slightly from his side, fingers half-extending toward her before he caught himself and smoothed his tie instead. The mint dissolved on his tongue, leaving behind a cool numbness that matched the sensation spreading beneath his ribs.

  Jim checked his watch—six minutes until the second half. The motion triggered a memory so vivid it felt like being physically transported:

  The ancient fuse box mounted on the Marquee's wall, green paint flaking off to reveal layers of older colors beneath. The specific constellation of scratches around the keyhole where generations of venue managers had fumbled in poor light. The particular sound it made when opened—a metallic groan that resolved into a spring-loaded ping. The yellowed electrical schematic taped inside, corners curled with age and damp, showing wiring that had been modified so many times it resembled a plate of spaghetti. The main breaker switch with its cracked plastic handle, wrapped in aging electrical tape that had left sticky residue on his thumb when he'd flipped it after the power dropped during sound check.

  The memory arrived with such crystalline clarity that Jim could feel the tacky adhesive residue on his skin. He rubbed his thumb against his forefinger, half-expecting to find it there.

  "Two minutes, Mr. Beach." The stage manager's voice—Martin, his mind supplied, though Jim had no memory of learning the man's name—pulled him back to the present.

  "Thank you," Jim replied, falling back on professional routine like a drowning man grabbing a life preserver.

  He moved toward the stage, muscle memory guiding him through the theatre's corridors while his conscious mind continued to grapple with the implications of two parallel sets of memories. The radio clipped to his belt buzzed periodically with technical updates—lighting cues confirmed, sound levels adjusted, security positions established.

  As the band assembled in the wings, Jim took up his usual vantage point, close enough to address any issues but removed enough to maintain overview. The house lights dimmed in a perfectly timed fade, drawing a collective murmur of anticipation from the audience.

  The second half opened with a surge of electricity—Brian's unmistakable guitar riff for "Tie Your Mother Down" slicing through the darkness before the stage lights revealed Roger's drums joining, then John's bass, and finally Freddie strutting to center stage as the audience erupted.

  Two songs later, John stepped slightly forward as the opening bass line of "I Want to Break Free" thrummed through the speakers. Audience members rose from their seats in waves as Freddie took the microphone.

  Jim found himself focusing on John, whose playing style always provided the steady foundation upon which the others could showcase their more flamboyant talents. The Hammersmith's superior acoustics let him hear each note of the bass line with perfect clarity—the precision of John's fingering, the way each note flowed seamlessly into the next with mathematical exactitude.

  Unlike Roger's theatrical drumming or Brian's expressive guitar work, John played with economical movements, no wasted motion, no flourishes. His technique was all about serving the song rather than drawing attention.

  Which made what happened next all the more jarring.

  Midway through the second verse, during a crucial bass run that bridged into the chorus, John... stopped. Not a missed note or timing error, but a complete cessation of movement. His fingers remained suspended over the strings, his expression blank, his entire body frozen as if someone had pressed pause on only him while the rest of the world continued.

  For two full seconds—an eternity in musical performance—John Deacon existed in perfect stasis while the song flowed around him. Not a muscle twitched, not an eyelid flickered.

  Jim's lungs seized, his fingernails digging half-moons into his palms as he stared. This wasn't a performer pausing for effect. This wasn't even a mistake. This was something fundamentally wrong—a complete suspension of animation followed by an instantaneous resumption of normal function.

  When John "reactivated," his fingers found exactly the right position on the fretboard, rejoining the bass line at precisely the correct moment, as if the pause had never occurred. The recovery was flawless, mechanically perfect in a way no human recovery could be.

  Jim's gaze darted to the sound engineers at the mixing desk—no reaction. He scanned the nearest audience members—nothing. The other band members continued performing without the slightest acknowledgment.

  Only when Jim's eyes found Claudia in the fifth row did he see confirmation. Her spine had gone rigid, her attention locked on John with the same horrified fascination Jim felt. Beside her, Bob's impassive expression remained unchanged, though a muscle ticked in his jaw. Jay had frozen mid-fidget, mouth hanging open before Bob's elbow connected sharply with his ribs.

  Freddie continued singing, his voice sailing over the instrumental foundation: "I want to break free from your lies..." The lyrics took on an unsettling new dimension, as if the song itself were commenting on the fracturing reality around them.

  Jim forced air into his lungs, loosened his tie a half-inch, struggled to maintain his professional mask while every instinct screamed that what he'd witnessed defied explanation. People don't freeze and unfreeze like malfunctioning film reels. They don't stop and restart with computer-like precision.

  Unless...

  Jim's train of thought skidded to a halt as he deliberately focused on immediate production matters—confirming the lighting sequence for the next song, checking sight lines for Freddie's movement patterns, ensuring water bottles stood ready for the upcoming guitar change. These practical concerns offered temporary refuge from the implications of what he'd witnessed.

  But as the song concluded and the audience rose in applause, Jim's attention gravitated back to John—now standing slightly stage left, acknowledging the crowd with a minimal nod before adjusting his bass strap with those same precise, economical movements.

  John appeared perfectly normal now, yet the image of him frozen mid-performance had seared itself into Jim's memory. Combined with the audio distortion during "Bohemian Rhapsody," the strange device in Jay's hand, Claudia's confirmation of their shared impossible memories, and the increasing frequency of déjà vu moments, it pointed toward a conclusion so fantastical that Jim's rational mind recoiled from it.

  Yet beneath that resistance, understanding began to take shape. The explanation might lie within Claudia's cryptic statements about time's non-linearity, in the peculiar behavior of her American companions, in the crown pendant she constantly touched.

  Or perhaps in whatever awaited them at Wembley—the next venue he somehow knew they would play, despite having no conscious memory of booking it.

  The thought of Wembley sent ice water through his veins as Brian launched into the opening chords of the next song. That vast stadium featured prominently in his dreams, and increasingly, Jim suspected those weren't dreams at all but glimpses of what was yet to come—or perhaps what had already happened in some version of reality he couldn't yet comprehend.

  For now, though, Jim clung to the immediate demands of the Hammersmith performance, straightening his tie and checking his watch with practiced efficiency. His professional veneer remained intact despite the growing certainty that everything around him—the venue, the concert, perhaps reality itself—was not what it appeared to be.