𝐎𝐅𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐃 [◉°]
Synopsis : Trapped in 1982, a girl from the future becomes an assistant at Epic Records during the chaotic, final days of recording Thriller. She knows the tragic future that awaits a young Michael Jackson, but to him, she is just a stranger with a clipboard.
Content : Michael Jackson x Original Female Character
Warnings : dark topics ( death, mental issues, triggering words etc. ) ; mature content ; angst ; fluff ( more warnings to be added if needed. )
“ᴏꜰꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇᴄᴏʀᴅ” ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ
ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ
CHAPTER 1 📀
Rainwater slid down the movie theater posters in silver lines, blurring the smiling face of Jaafar Jackson who was proudly portraying his uncle, into streaks of gold and black beneath the city lights.
People poured out onto the sidewalk around her in loud groups, all talking over one another.
“Oh my God, the Thriller scene…”
“I didn’t know he was that famous that young…”
“My mom’s obsessed with him.”
“He was actually so talented, though.”
She stood still in the middle of the crowd while everyone else moved around her.
The neon glow from the theater reflected against the wet pavement. Somewhere nearby, a taxi honked aggressively. Teenagers laughed while pulling their coats over their heads, still energized from the movie.
But she couldn’t move.
Her chest hurt.
Not in a dramatic way.
Just that same quiet ache she always felt after hearing his voice too long.
It had been ten years.
Ten years since she first fell into the spiral of interviews, unreleased demos, concert footage, documentaries, court transcripts, old MTV clips, grainy backstage recordings.
Ten years of defending him online, arguing with people who only knew headlines, sitting awake at three in the morning reading about a man who had been gone longer than she’d even known him.
And somehow he still felt unbearably alive to her.
That was the problem.
The biopic had only made it worse.
Because now everybody was suddenly rediscovering him.
Teenagers who hadn’t cared before were posting edits online. His songs were charting again. Old vinyls were selling out everywhere. People who had mocked him for years were now calling him a genius like they hadn’t spent decades tearing him apart.
The hypocrisy made her sick.
A group of younger girls rushed past her holding shopping bags from a music store nearby.
One of them pulled out a vinyl excitedly beneath the streetlights.
Thriller.
“Look how cool this is!”
“I’m literally buying a record player now.”
“He was so pretty back then.”
She stared at the album cover in the girl’s hands.
That white suit.
That soft expression.
So familiar it almost hurt to look at.
Before she realized it, her feet were already moving.
The rain had picked up into a soft drizzle by the time she reached the little record store at the corner of the block.
[ VINYL PARADISE ]
The sign buzzed faintly overhead.
The place looked ancient compared to everything around it, squeezed between modern storefronts like a forgotten memory the city hadn’t managed to erase yet.
She hesitated before stepping inside.
A tiny bell chimed above her head.
Warmth immediately wrapped around her shivering body.
The store smelled like old paper sleeves, wood polish, dust, and something faintly electrical from aging equipment.
Vinyl records lined every wall from floor to ceiling. Soft static crackled through overhead speakers while some old soul song played quietly in the background.
A few teenagers wandered around near the pop section, laughing over albums they clearly didn’t recognize.
Near the counter sat an old man with silver-rimmed glasses reading a newspaper beneath a dim hanging lamp.
He glanced up when she entered.
Then his eyes lingered on her face strangely.
“You also came from the movie.” he said.
Not a question.
She blinked. “Is it that obvious?”
He folded the newspaper slowly. “Half the city has tonight.”
She gave a small laugh through her exhaustion and wandered toward the Michael Jackson section almost automatically.
Nearly empty.
Figures.
Only a few records remained.
Bad.
Off the Wall.
And
Thriller.
Original pressing.
Not remastered.
Not recreated.
1982. Epic Records print.
She was surprised there was even one left, since everyone seems to have bought it now.
She carefully slid it halfway from the sleeve.
Perfect condition.
“How much?” she asked quietly.
The old man looked over from behind the counter.
“That one’s expensive.”
“I figured.”
“But I don’t think price is why you want it.”
Something about the way he said it made her glance back at him.
“You a fan?” he asked.
She looked down at the album cover again.
“Since I was twelve.”
“You know…” he said softly. “Most people come in here because they miss the music.” His eyes lifted to hers.
“You came in because you miss the man.”
Something in her chest tightened violently.
She shifted uncomfortably. “You always psychoanalyze customers or am I special?”
For the first time, the old man smiled faintly.
“Maybe both.” he said.
She should’ve laughed.
Instead, goosebumps rose along her arms.
The man stood slowly from behind the counter and walked toward her. Up close, he smelled faintly like old paper and cigarette smoke. His movements were careful, almost deliberate, like every word he chose mattered.
“Funny thing about that record,” he murmured.
“What?”
He removed his glasses carefully.
“It always comes back.”
She frowned slightly. “What does that mean?”
“Somebody buys it,” he said. “Then years later it ends up here again.”
“That sounds impossible.”
“Doesn’t it?”
The store suddenly felt quieter.
The old man carefully took the vinyl from her hands and slid it into a paper bag.
“Take it.” he said quietly.
She stared at him. “I didn’t even pay yet.”
“You already did.”
“What does that mean?”
For the first time since she entered the store, something almost sorrowful crossed the old man’s face.
“Some things cost more later.”
Thunder cracked loudly outside. The lights flickered softly.
“You should go home now.” he said softly.
Her pulse hammered unevenly in her throat.
Something about him terrified her suddenly.
“Take care of the record.”
She left the store, taking one last glance behind her at the strange old man.
“What a creep…” she whispered to herself, walking to the bus station.
📀
The rain had worsened by the time she got home.
The city outside her apartment windows glowed silver and gold through the storm while distant traffic blurred together beneath the sound of thunder.
She tossed her keys onto the kitchen counter and leaned back against it with a long exhale.
The apartment was empty.
Quiet.
Only the muffled sound of rain filling the rooms.
For a moment she just stood there staring at the vinyl still tucked beneath her arm.
Then she pulled it out carefully.
The cover looked even more surreal at home beneath warm apartment lighting.
Young Michael looked impossibly alive.
Not the exhausted versions from later years.
Not the trial footage.
Not the pale, fragile man from the 2000s.
This Michael still looked hopeful.
That hurt the most somehow.
She swallowed hard and carried the vinyl toward the old record player sitting near her bookshelf.
The second the needle touched the record, static crackled softly through the room.
Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’.
The sound immediately filled the apartment with warmth.
Real warmth.
Not digital.
Not compressed.
The album sounded alive on vinyl.
She laughed quietly under her breath as her heart basically smiled hearing his voice.
As the songs played, she moved slowly around the apartment changing clothes, making tea she forgot to drink, scrolling through social media filled with clips from the biopic premiere.
Everybody suddenly loved him again.
It made her irrationally angry.
Because where had that love been when he was alive?
By the time Thriller itself began playing, rain hammered harder against the windows.
Lightning flashed outside.
The lights flickered once, then steadied.
She curled deeper beneath her blanket on the couch, eyes drifting toward the spinning vinyl across the room.
Michael’s voice echoed softly through the dark apartment.
For the first time all night, her chest loosened slightly.
Safe.
That was the word.
His music always made her feel strangely safe, even when everything else felt awful.
Track after track played while exhaustion slowly pulled her under.
Then came Human Nature.
Soft.
Dreamlike.
Almost aching.
She watched the vinyl spin lazily beneath the dim lamp beside the couch.
And before sleep fully took her, she whispered quietly into the dark.
“I wish I saved you.”
The lights went out instantly and everything plunged into darkness.
She jerked upright.
The music distorted violently.
Not skipping — stretching.
Warping deeper and slower until Michael’s voice no longer sounded human.
Static exploded from the speakers.
“What the hell?!”
Wind suddenly tore through the apartment though every window was closed. Papers flew from the table. The lamp shattered onto the floor beside her, making a scream leave her throat.
Music blasted backward through the speakers in broken fragments. Laughter. Screaming crowds. Interviews. Flashbulbs. Concerts.
Voices layered over one another.
“King of Pop—”
“Michael, over here—”
“Is it true—”
“World tour—”
“Accusations—”
“We love you Michael!”
“Not guilty—”
She covered her ears, fear rising sharply in her throat, not giving her space to breathe properly. She closed her eyes tightly, thinking she might get a panic attack.
Then suddenly,
Silence.
Complete silence.
The world disappeared beneath her.
She felt herself falling.
Like being dragged underwater through memories that didn’t belong to her.
Everything went white, then her eyes snapped open.
Bright fluorescent lights burned overhead.
The smell hit her immediately.
Coffee.
Cigarette smoke.
Paper.
Not her apartment?
Phones rang somewhere nearby.
People rushed past carrying folders, tapes, coffee cups.
She sat upright too quickly from a leather chair in complete panic.
A woman stormed past her wearing heels and shoulder pads.
"If Quincy wants another playback, he can go down to production himself and tell them they're staying for a third straight shift!"
Quincy.
As in Quincy Jones?
Her stomach dropped violently.
Another man followed behind the woman, holding tons of folders.
“You tell him that, I’m scared. He threw a coffee cup outside the window when he left from here and Michael doesn’t want to go out from the studio.”
No.
Her heartbeat became deafening.
Then somebody shoved a clipboard into her hands.
“There you are.” the woman snapped impatiently. “Dempsey’s office, now.”
She couldn’t breathe.
People kept moving around her like nothing was wrong.
Like this was normal.
Like she hadn’t just crossed decades.
Her fingers tightened around the clipboard so hard the edges dug painfully into her skin.
Nobody around her noticed.
The office moved at full speed.
Phones rang endlessly from nearby desks. Men in suits rushed through hallways carrying stacks of papers and tapes.
Everything felt loud.
Too loud.
Too real.
She noticed the giant calendar poster across the room.
1982.
You have got to be kidding?
This has to be a dream, right?
The fluorescent lights above her buzzed faintly while panic slowly climbed up her throat.
The same woman brushed past her carrying coffee cups.
“You still standing there?” she snapped impatiently. “I said Dempsey’s office. Move.”
The clipboard was suddenly pulled tighter against her chest like instinct alone kept her holding onto it.
“I-“ her voice came out weak. “Sorry.”
The woman looked at her strangely.
“You okay?” she asked.
No, because what the fuck is going on?!
“Don’t get too much in your head now, we have work to do and pull this out before Christmas or we’re fired.”
Before she could answer, the woman was already hurrying away again.
People moved around her constantly, too busy to notice the world had just broken apart.
Her eyes dropped shakily toward the clipboard in her hands.
EPIC RECORDS / CBS CO-MARKETING DIVISION
Michael Jackson - Album “Thriller”
( Working Title : Midnight Man / Starlight )
STARLIGHT
BILLIE JEAN with huge red exclamation mark and a handwritten note “Intro too long!!! Cut it from 4:55 to 3:00 or kick out the base line?”
29th of October, 1982.
This was weeks before Thriller released.
Weeks before the album changed music history forever.
Weeks before Michael became too famous to exist normally ever again.
A wave of dizziness hit her suddenly. She grabbed the edge of a nearby desk before she could fall.
Her feet dragged against the floor, until she was outside the Donald Dempsey’s office itself.
The door swung open with a soft creak, and the smell of expensive tobacco and cologne hit her so strongly that she nearly coughed.
"Where the hell are those studio schedules?!" Don Dempsey's voice cracked through the office like a gunshot.
He didn't even spare her a glance, his eyes fixed on the mountain of financial reports spread across his desk.
She swallowed hard, her fingers tightening around the clipboard.
"R-Right here, Mr. Dempsey." her voice weak, giving up on her.
Another man who was sitting on one of the soft leather chairs, slowly turned his head toward her, taking a long drag from his cigar.
"Bring it here, sweetheart." the man said.
She walked over, trying not to let her knees give up on her. As she handed the clipboard to the man, his face seemed familiar.
He took it from her before glancing toward Dempsey.
"Take it easy, Don. Michael and Quincy are just worn out. They had that whole MCA mess over the E.T. record this week. The kid's under pressure.” he said in his calm, deep voice, never removing the cigar from between his lips.
"I don't give a damn about E.T., Frank!" Dempsey shot to his feet, leaning over the desk until he was practically in his face.
"I care about Christmas sales! We've spent over seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars on this album. It's the most expensive project in the history of this company! And what do we have? The first mix sounds like garbage, and early reports say radio stations are lukewarm on 'The Girl Is Mine.' If this album flops, CBS shuts down Epic Records and we're all out on the streets!”
Then Dempsey turned directly toward her. His stare was ice cold.
"You..” he snapped, pointing a finger at her. "What's your name... uh doesn't matter."
Her stomach dropped.
"Take the company car. Bring these approved overtime budgets straight to Westlake. Quincy won't return my calls and Michael's locked himself in the booth. I want you there. And if I don't get a new mix of 'Billie Jean' in the next twenty-four hours that isn't five damn minutes long, I'll drive down there myself and cut the tape with a pair of scissors."
His finger jabbed toward her again.
"Do you understand me?"
She flinched, body guled to the floor as she nodded.
"Yes, sir." her voice came out smaller than she intended.
"Good."
Don Dempsey dropped back into his chair with a frustrated huff and immediately buried himself in another stack of reports.
The man, Frank DiLeo, meanwhile, watched her through a haze of cigar smoke.
For a second, she thought he might say something.
Instead, he simply handed her the folder.
"Don't let him scare you, sweetheart.” Frank said, standing slowly. "He's been yelling since Nixon was in office."
Dempsey pointed toward the door without even looking up.
"Go!"
She nodded again quickly leaving the two man as she rushed through the doors.
By the time she pulled into the parking lot of Westlake Recording Studios, the California sun had long disappeared behind the horizon.
Vivian sat in the company car for an extra minute.
Her hands were trembling.
Westlake.
She was standing outside Westlake.
She knew this place.
Not personally.
Through documentaries.
Through photographs.
Through years of obsessive late-night research.
This was where Thriller had happened.
Where history happened.
And somewhere inside...
Michael Jackson was alive.
Alive.
Not footage.
Not memories.
Alive.
Her breathing grew uneven. Tears welled up in her eyes.
No.
This wasn't real.
None of this was real.
She had fallen asleep.
That had to be it.
Any minute now she'd wake up back in her apartment.
Any minute— a horn blared behind her.
Vivian nearly jumped.
Another car was waiting.
She quickly parked properly and stepped out.
The warm fall air hit her face.
And suddenly,
Fear.
Real fear.
Because he was in there.
What if she actually saw him?
What if…
No.
No, she wouldn't.
There were hundreds of people involved.
No way she'd run into him immediately.
Once she was inside the building, the receptionist barely looked up.
"They're downstairs." she said like she knew who walked through the door.
"They?"
"The usual crazies."
Vivian frowned. “Excuse me?"
The woman just laughed, looking up at her.
"You'll understand." she said.
The girl just looked towards the staircase before following the road to where they lead to.
As Vivian approached the door marked Studio A, she heard voices.
Loud voices.
One in particular.
Quincy Jones.
"...Mike, for the last time, nobody's gonna play a five-minute record!"
Then another voice.
Young.
Soft.
Frustrated.
"I don't care!"
Vivian froze. Every hair on her body stood on end.
No.
No way.
That voice.
Her eyes filled with tears again instantly.
She knew that voice.
She'd spent ten years listening to it.
And it was right there.
"...it tells a story!" Michael continued.
"And radio tells stories too!" Quincy argued.
"Not good ones!"
Quincy groaned.
“Michael—“
"No."
Silence.
Then the he door burst open and he came out.
Vivian forgot how to breathe.
He nearly walked right into her.
"Oh!" he stopped abruptly.
Her eyes widened.
Twenty-four.
God.
He looked twenty-four.
Not fifty.
Not thin and tired and worn down by everything she'd seen in old interviews.
Young.
Beautiful.
Messy curls.
Dark eyes.
A blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
And exhaustion.
God, he looked exhausted.
He blinked at her.
She stared.
He stared.
Then his eyebrows rose slightly. "Sorry."
Sorry?
He was apologizing?
"I'm-“ she couldn't speak.
Michael frowned slightly.
"You okay?" he asked.
His voice.
His actual voice.
Not through speakers.
Not through a documentary.
His voice.
Vivian could feel tears burning behind her eyes.
No.
No no no.
Not now.
Not in front of him.
She looked insane enough already.
"I'm fine." The lie came out too quickly.
Michael tilted his head, clearly unconvinced.
And before he could say anything else,
"Mike!"
Quincy appeared behind him and he looked annoyed.
"No disappearing."
"I'm not disappearing." Michael spoke back.
"You literally walked out."
"I needed air."
"You need therapy." Quincy pointed out.
Michael laughed softly.
Actually laughed.
And Vivian's heart shattered.
Because she knew that laugh.
She knew it.
She knew how it sounded twenty years later.
She knew what it sounded like when he was happy.
And when he wasn't.
And here it was.
Young.
Untouched.
Still innocent.
Quincy finally noticed her. "Did Dempsey sent you?”
Vivian jumped.
"Uh.. Um T-The budgets." she held up the folder weakly.
“Oh Lord.” Quincy groaned.
"The budgets?" Michael looked over.
"Dempsey's threatening homicide." Quincy took the folder from Vivian’s hands.
"Again?"
"He keeps mentioning scissors."
Michael burst out laughing.
And it was so ridiculous.
So warm.
So normal.
He just looked like a tired young man laughing at his crazy boss.
"Dempsey said if I don't cut this thing down, he's coming here himself with them."
"He won't." Michael said.
"He absolutely will."
Michael smiled. "He likes me."
"He likes money." Quincy corrected him.
That made Michael laugh again.
Then Quincy disappeared back into the studio, leaving them alone.
For exactly three seconds.
Michael looked back at her, his smile softened politely.
"Thanks for bringing those." he said.
And that was it.
No destiny.
No recognition.
No lightning striking.
Just gratitude.
Then Quincy called his name and he looked away immediately.
"Coming!"
He turned back toward her one last time.
"Goodnight."
And then he was gone, swallowed back into Studio A.
Vivian stood frozen outside the door. Tears slipped down her cheeks.
Because after ten years...
After documentaries and books and interviews and grief…
She had finally met Michael Jackson.
And he had no idea who she was.
yessssss more time travel ficsss!!!
