Nocturne - a Depeche Mode fan fiction
Lena Hartley always believed a stroke of luck could change everything. Fate giving you a nod, the impossible suddenly within reach, close enough to touch. Thrilling, sure. But the high? It never lasted. Feelings always barged in eventually, like uninvited guests who drank all the wine and left you with the hangover.
Something needed to change.
She thought about that on Tuesday morning as she rattled toward Holborn, standing in a Tube carriage that smelled faintly of damp coats and yesterday’s coffee. At five foot five she wasn’t exactly built for elbowing strangers, but ambition had taught her how to wedge herself into impossible spaces. Big hazel eyes, she’d been told, were her weapon—though they were currently bleary from too little sleep. Her wavy dark hair had staged a rebellion against the clip she’d forced it into, and her fair skin looked ghostly under the carriage lights.
Another day, another desk. She worked in music—sort of. Promotions assistant sounded glamorous enough when she said it quickly at parties, but in practice it meant wrangling spreadsheets and proofing tour flyers. If she leaned back at just the right angle, she could glimpse the corner of a poster on the office wall: a band she’d once queued six freezing hours to see. That sliver of colour reminded her why she tolerated the inbox carnage.
“Morning, Hartley.” Michelle breezed past with two lattes and a conspiratorial smirk. “Your emails look feral.”
“Show me the monster.” Lena dumped her bag, tapped the computer awake, and braced herself.
Michelle hovered, eyes bright. “And before you ask, no, none of them are love letters. Unless you count the one from Accounts.”
“Tragic.” Lena pulled her phone from her pocket, thumbs flying. Need coffee.
Her childhood friend Liv replied instantly: And Tesco jam doughnut.
That’s basically communion, Lena wrote back, and tucked the phone away.
The morning unfolded in the usual rhythm: a calendar double-booking, a last-minute artwork change, a manager marking emails “urgent” like he was personally combusting. Lena handled it all with the weary elegance of someone who had bigger plans stuck under her skin: reviews to write, concerts to chase, a future built on sound rather than spreadsheets.
Which was why the receptionist’s voice, crackling over the intercom at eleven-thirty, made her frown.
“Lena? You’ve got post.”
“Post post?” Lena leaned back. “As in envelopes?”
“Hand-delivered. For you.”
Michelle raised an eyebrow as Lena passed. “Don’t say no one writes anymore.”
“I’m flattered, not gonna lie,” Lena said.
The envelope was cream, thick as though it carried its own gravity. Her name—Lena Hartley—inked in a slanted hand that looked almost shy of the page, as if the writer had cared too much. No return address. No neat company logo. Just weight.
It smelled faintly of dust and cedar drawers, the kind that keep secrets long after their owners are gone. Lena slid a finger under the flap.
Inside, a single slip: Collect the parcel. Trust it.
Beneath, barely there, as though the pen had hesitated: A song for midnight.
The phrase had a rhythm to it, like the ghost of a lyric. She heard herself whisper, almost defensively, “What is this—a lost Depeche Mode b-side?” But her laugh snagged, thin and hollow.
Her stomach tightened. It was absurd. Ridiculous. Yet a couple of hours later she found herself at a depot across the city, signing for a package already labelled in her name. Inside—one cassette tape. Nothing else.
Back at her flat, Lena dug out an ancient Walkman from a drawer. The tape clicked into place with a mechanical sigh. Then the music began: a synth line cold and clear, underpinned by the steady pulse of drums. But layered within it was something stranger—classical chords from a piano, threaded through the electronics, haunting and melodic. Not just any track. Something that could only have come from one mind. Alan Wilder’s. Seconds later she had confirmation: the voice singing was indeed Wilder’s.
Her breath caught. The title was Nocturne. The notes, the lyrics… they seemed familiar.
The first chords lifted and folded—and the room convulsed. She reached for the arm of the sofa, missed, and the world fell sideways. Sound collapsed into static, vision into white. She thought she screamed but couldn’t hear it. Then silence.
Heat struck her first, brutal and dry, a sun with no patience for pale London skin. The air itself tasted scorched. She blinked against the blaze and found palm trees raking the sky like giant green scars. Cars prowled past, engines rumbling, the air clogged with tar and gasoline.
Her pulse hammered. This wasn’t London, wasn’t England at all.
A wall plastered with posters made her stumble closer, throat tight: DEPECHE MODE — JUNE 18 — PASADENA ROSE BOWL.
Her breath caught. She knew those words, had seen them pixelated on grainy YouTube footage, had imagined the heat, the roar of a hundred thousand voices. But this wasn’t footage. This was asphalt under her shoes, the poster edges peeling in the sun.
Her body froze before her mind caught up—because a tour bus was bearing down on her.
Brakes screamed. Horns blared. Lena stood there, incapable of moving.
The bus hissed to a stop inches away. The doors clattered open and voices spilled out, incredulous and sharp with adrenaline. Four heads popped out, and they weren’t just anyone.
Four men, all familiar in a way that made her stomach twist. She knew their faces from posters, VHS footage, a thousand YouTube clips she’d rewatched obsessively, not to mention two live gigs she’d scraped money to see.
Depeche Mode. The Depeche Mode. And not in glossy retrospectives—no, this was them alive, breathing, exactly as they’d looked in 1988.
She lifted a hand mid-air, half tempted to slap herself just to be sure.
“Christ, nearly had her face on the glass,” Andy barked, panic edged in his voice.
Lena blinked at him—Andy Fletcher, way younger, reddish-blond hair neat, glasses perched on his nose.
Martin appeared behind, platinum-blond hair catching the sun, blue eyes fixed on her with concern. Slender, delicate features, mesh top under a studded waistcoat, leather trousers clinging to his frame. “Are you alright?” he asked softly.
Her gaze snagged on the man nearest the bus steps, and the world seemed to lurch again. Alan Wilder.
Tall, all sharp lines and careful composure, his light brown hair slicked back with a precision that made the Californian heat look irrelevant. The black shirt clung to him, sleeves rolled to the elbow, pale denim cutting the glare, boots polished like he’d stepped out of a magazine spread instead of a tour bus. A silver watch caught the sun, flashing a reminder that time itself had no business behaving.
And then his eyes—blue-grey, cool as tempered steel—locked on her. Worry threaded through the suspicion there, as if he were measuring whether she was danger, madness, or both.
This is Alan. Bloody. Wilder.
Her throat seized. In the daydreams she used to entertain on dreary London commutes, she always knew the right thing to say, something wry enough to impress him, casual enough to hide how much he mattered. But reality tore that script to shreds.
“Y—you’re—”
One eyebrow arched, a flicker of sardonic patience. His voice, low and precise, carried more command than question.
“Yes?”
Behind him loomed Dave Gahan, almost as tall, lean, magnetic, greenish-brown eyes sparking with mischief. His white sleeveless shirt clung to him, black jeans tight, leather cuff at his wrist. He looked every inch the frontman. “She’s fine! Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you off the road before you redecorate the grille of a bus.”
Lena dragged in a shaky breath, her dark hair sticking to her temples. Was I just almost flattened by Depeche Mode? Am I dreaming? Am I… dead? She pinched herself.
Alan’s eyes flicked from her face to the cassette clutched in her hand. “What’s that?” he asked calmly, though the edge in his voice was unmistakable.
Before she could answer, Dave jumped over. “Oh Charlie, stop it. Let her breathe. Who are you, love? Name, place of birth?”
Her mouth opened. Nothing came out. Still nothing.
“Speechless.” Andy laughed, his Basildon accent warm. “That’s a first. Dave, you’ve finally met your match.”
The tour manager appeared, red-faced, clipboard in hand. “What’s this? We’ve got a schedule, boys. Can’t be picking up strays.”
“I—I…” Lena stammered. Get your shit together.
The manager waved her off. “We’ll drop her somewhere. She can find her way. Can’t keep every dazed fan who jumps in front of traffic.”
Her heart sank. They thought she was some kind of groupie. Worse, she had no idea what she’d say if pressed. No passport, no money—just twenty quid in her pocket—and the tape that had dragged her here.
They bundled her onto the bus. Narrow aisle, smell of cigarettes and leather, bunks stacked like coffins. Lena’s eyes darted nervously as she sank into a seat. Across from her, four sets of eyes studied the intruder fate had dropped in their path.
“Name’s Lena Hartley, by the way,” she managed finally, lifting her chin. “From London.”
Andy clapped, delighted. “She speaks!”
Alan shot him a look that silenced him. Martin leaned forward. “That cassette—it says DM Nocturne. Weird, right?”
Every instinct told her to keep quiet. But Alan’s gaze pinned her, steady, unblinking, and the words spilled out, hushed, like a secret shared in confidence. She told them about the envelope, the handwriting, the cassette, and how the world had folded into white.
When she finished, silence spread.
Andy scoffed. “Time travel? Pull the other one.”
Dave tilted his head, mock-serious. “I’ve seen this film before! So, future girl—tell us, any of us lose our hair?”
Alan tried not to laugh at Dave's question and stayed quiet. His expression unreadable, but something flickered there. Recognition? He didn’t call the tape a fake. He didn’t call it anything.
The bus rattled on. Neon glow streaked across the windows. Lena sat stiff, every jolt reminding her she didn’t belong.
Martin’s voice broke the stillness. “As a band… do we last?”
She cleared her throat. She couldn’t tell them everything. “You’re remembered,” she said softly.
The words hit differently for each of them. Martin’s blue eyes widened faintly. Dave seemed satisfied. Andy shook his head. Alan’s gaze stayed on her. “Whatever brought you here,” he said at last with a hint of excitement, “chose its moment well.”
As they were approaching the hotel, Alan stepped in when the manager tried to dismiss her. “She’s coming with us,” he said, and that was that.
In his room, he offered her the sofa. She hesitated at the door. He was at the minibar, shirt half undone.
“What’s the matter?” His voice was dry, amused. “I don’t bite.”
“Given the looks I’ve had today, jury’s still out,” she muttered, collapsing onto the sofa.
He handed her a beer. Their fingers brushed, her cheeks warming despite herself. He sat opposite, studying her. “So. I’m supposed to swallow this story. That a letter and a tape dropped you in our road. And you’re not a mad groupie who pinched a demo or something?”
“Look, I know the tape is real,” she said flatly. “Just like I am. I can’t explain exactly why, how, or when.”
His jaw tightened. “And I’m meant to take that at face value?”
“Believe what you want,” she replied. “But I knew your voice before you sang a note. That tape doesn’t belong here any more than I do.”
The silence stretched. Finally, Alan muttered, “So is it my song? Right. I’m gonna need another beer.”
The words hung heavy in the air, just as a bang rattled the door. Dave tumbled in, followed by Andy and Martin.
“Oi, Al! Stop hoggin’ the future girl — she might fancy better company.” Dave teased her into making room, then slid onto the sofa at her side.
Andy followed, glasses flashing, all elbows and scepticism. “Are you interrogatin’ her, Alan? Give it a rest, mate.”
Alan exhaled through his nose. “I had this under control.”
Dave tipped him a look that carried more laughter than words. “Course ya did, mate. We’re just adding atmosphere.” Then he looked at Lena. “You alright, love? Charlie hasn’t talked you to death with chords and time signatures, has he?”
“I’ve survived worse.” Lena’s voice wobbled, but she held his gaze, chin lifted.
Dave’s grin widened. “Sharp tongue. I like her already.”
“I was thinking about the title Nocturne,” Martin murmured, pointing at the tape. His blue eyes flicked toward Alan. “Could be one of yours.”
Dave leaned in closer, lowering his voice like a magician about to unveil a trick. “Go on then. Let’s have a listen.”
Lena’s stomach lurched. She remembered the world splitting white, the roar in her ears. The thought of letting that sound loose again made her feel sick. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
Andy rolled his eyes. “Convenient.”
Alan still hadn’t spoken. He was watching her with that unnerving stillness, eyes fixed not on the tape but on her face. Waiting. Testing.
Her palms were slick. “It’s not just a song. Last time I pressed play—something happened. I don’t know if I can… if it’ll happen again.”
“That’s the point,” Dave said brightly. “If we’re all here, maybe it’ll beam us somewhere nice. Brighton pier, bag of chips, bit of sun?”
“You’ll forgive me if I prefer to avoid spontaneous combustion,” Alan said finally. His voice was calm but carried weight.
Lena kind of expected that to end it, but Martin surprised her. He leaned forward, curious as a cat. “What if she’s right? What if there’s something in it? We won’t know unless—”
Silence. The four men seemed to share some invisible debate, a conversation in glances.
Then Lena, trembling, set the Walkman on the coffee table. “Oh, you know what? Fine. But if the floor falls out from under us again, I’m blaming all of you.”
I can only hope I won't vanish God knows where.
A click. A hiss. Static spilled into the room, relentless and flat.
For a breath, her body braced for rupture—sound collapsing, vision tearing white. But nothing came. Just the hiss, tinny and cruel.
Dave cupped a hand to his ear. “That’s it? White noise?”
Andy raised his hands, grinning. “Proof’s gone bust.”
Martin crouched close, frowning at the cassette as though it might confess. “It didn’t even spool. The tape looks fine.”
Alan leaned forward at last. He took the machine from Lena with surgeon’s precision, fingers deft on the buttons, knuckles grazing hers. He tapped it once against his palm, studied the rollers, then set it carefully back on the desk.
“The player’s given up,” he murmured. His eyes lingered on her, steady and unreadable. “Or maybe it knows better than we do.”
And in the silence that followed, he felt it—that odd twist in his chest, a sensation too close to déjà vu. As if he had already written this moment, already heard her voice wrapped in his melody.
Lena’s relief came like a wave, crashing hard. She wanted to laugh and cry all at once.
Dave clapped his hands. “Well, that’s anticlimactic. I was expecting thunderbolts. Maybe a portal. I say we keep this girl anyway. She nearly died under our bus.”
Lena could only shake her head. The absurdity of it—one of her favourite bands squabbling around a broken Walkman—was almost enough to make her forget she was almost thirty years out of place.
The manager knocked again, softer this time. “Everything alright in there?”
“We’re fine,” Alan called back, tone clipped but calm. “All under control.”
One by one, the others drifted out. Dave ruffled her hair on his way past, earning a sharp “Pack it in” from Alan. Andy gave her a last sceptical glance, muttering something about mental. Martin left, giving Lena a small wave.
Then the door clicked shut, and the room felt both emptier and closer.
Alan placed the rescued cassette on the desk, away from reach. “If you’re lying,” he said at last, voice quieter, “it’ll unravel soon enough.”
“I’m not,” Lena whispered.
A pause. Then: “All right. Have a good rest now, Lena.”
The lamp clicked off. City glow washed the ceiling faint pink. She curled beneath the blanket, heart finally slowing. Across the room, the mattress dipped once, then stilled.
Pasadena held its breath for tomorrow. And Lena fell asleep.
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