Riffs in Time

Chapter One

With my towel and spare clothes in hand, I left the dressing room and headed down a quieter corridor. The space was nearly empty now, making navigation a bit easier.

When I reached the bathroom door, a strange buzzing filled the air—like the hum of old fluorescent lights. I grasped the doorknob, and a small jolt shot through my hand. I paused to examine it for damage, then wrapped it in my t-shirt before opening the door.

Inside, I caught my reflection in the mirror. My lightly tanned, olive skin and brown eyes—so ordinary compared to Roxy's piercing blue gaze—offered no hints of the standout image I envied in my bandmates. I didn't have the striking tattoos that decorated Benny's arms, nor did I possess Chester's effortless style that even a basic tee managed to elevate. My reflection was plain: a regular nose, a regular mouth, nothing particularly memorable. To make matters worse, my makeup had run into a messy smear from the sweat. I tied my bottle-dyed black hair back and quickly washed off the grime, only to reapply a hastily smudged version. The thought of the after-party made my stomach churn. I'd much rather be holed up in my hotel room, watching my cat Cheese through the cat-feeder app I installed, than mingling with the industry's sleazy characters.

After scrubbing off as much sweat as I could and changing into a band tee, some jorts, boot socks, and boots, I wasn't aiming to stand out at the party—I just wanted to disappear into the crowd.

Just as my hand closed around the doorknob to leave, that odd buzzing swelled into a deep, throbbing rhythm that made my skin crawl. For a heartbeat, I wondered—drums? The beat pulsed like a warning in an empty corridor. It couldn't be an encore call; most of the crowd had already trickled out, and I hadn't been summoned back on stage.

I pushed the door open and stepped out, each footstep echoing in the quiet hall. As I moved toward the stage, a familiar riff began to cut through the silence—House of Wolves—but it sounded distorted, like it was coming from a long-forgotten memory rather than the here and now. My pulse quickened with every step, the sound drawing me in, even as a nagging dread grew.

I shuffled closer for a better look, and then—holy shit—there they were!

My eyes widened in disbelief. Is that My Chemical Romance? A million questions flooded my mind. Were they reuniting for a secret show? Were we their openers, and I'd missed the memo? It was surreal: none of the members had aged a day, as if they'd been cryogenically frozen during their hiatus and defrosted just for this moment. Gerard Way still sported his iconic jet-black hair, a striped sweater layered under a denim jacket, and his voice was as mesmerizing as ever.

After playing their song, Gerard caught his breath and addressed the crowd.

"It's been a while since we played a show like this," he said.

"Five and a half years, maybe?"

That couldn't be right—it was 2019, and their last performance had been in 2012. I remembered crying to my parents when they disbanded not long after that show. It stung that I never got to see them in their prime, but now they were here, defying time.

"Yup. 2002. We were playing with the Long Darts, I think..." Gerard drawled.

2002? That was seventeen years ago. Had he lost his mind during the long hiatus? And why wasn't anyone correcting him?

Just then, a colder thought struck me: where was my band? Amid this MCR reunion, they were nowhere to be seen. I knew Chester would never miss something like this for the world.

I felt a creeping unease as I took in the scene—everything was just too... off. The crowd was surrounded by outdated equipment and the clothes they wore were relics of a past era. Even Gerard's handcam, with its clunky design, screamed "old school." It was as if I'd stepped into a time capsule.

I sprinted down the hallway, now teeming with stage crew and MCR personnel, my heart pounding as I frantically searched for my band. I stopped a few people in my path, asking where my band was and even blurting out, "What year is it?". They all had the same answer. They don't know. It's 2007.

By the time I made it back to the dressing room, my head was spinning. When I swung open the door, I was greeted by a group of people but not my bandmates.

"Hi, have you seen my band?" I asked, my voice tinged with desperation.

They exchanged puzzled glances before one of them—a woman with layered black hair—gently guided me to a chair.

"Are you okay? I think you need to sit down," she said, her tone laced with concern.

I tried to steady my racing thoughts. "I feel like I'm on some bad trip. Did I get drugged?" I stammered, the anxiety surging in every word.

"Everyone's saying it's 2007. But it's not, right?" I pressed, my words nearly a breathless plea.

A blonde girl, with a look that screamed Twiggy, cut in firmly, "But it is 2007."

"What?" I gasped, the reality crashing down on me. My mind was reeling with the impossibility of it all—the hints of old tech on the stage, the way my memories clashed with what I was witnessing. Everything around me was frozen in a time that wasn't mine.

"It's 2007," she repeated, her tone leaving no room for doubt.

And at that moment, everything went black.