The house lights dimmed with mechanical precision, not the haphazard flicker of the Marquee's aging electrical system but a smooth, deliberate fade that rippled outward from the stage. Two thousand seated patrons inhaled as one, creating a momentary vacuum that popped Jim's eardrums. In the Hammersmith's acoustically engineered space, even that subtle sound traveled with crystal clarity, hanging suspended for a heartbeat before dissolving.

  Jim gripped the smooth wooden rail in the wings, his fingers registering the absence of splinters that had threatened his hands at the Marquee just yesterday—or in that other life he couldn't quite dismiss. The two-way radio at his hip vibrated against his thigh. He ignored it, needing this moment to absorb, to reconcile the conflicting realities battling for supremacy in his mind.

  Cool air brushed his face, the theater's ventilation system maintaining a precise seventeen degrees that raised goosebumps along his forearms—a stark contrast to the Marquee's sweat-drenched atmosphere. Here, the climate control whispered so quietly that only the temperature itself revealed its presence.

  "Stand by for opening sequence," murmured the stage manager beside him, his words triggering a cascade of silent activity. Three technicians twisted dials with surgeon-like precision while another adjusted the angle of a floor-mounted spotlight by millimeters.

  A familiar cologne—expensive, slightly musky—announced Freddie. The singer stood resplendent in a structured white jacket that caught the ambient light in subtle ripples. The outfit would have seemed ridiculously elaborate at the Marquee but here, surrounded by velvet curtains and polished wood, it looked perfectly calibrated.

  "Jesus Christ, Jim, they've got us performing in an actual civilized venue for once." Freddie's eyes sparkled as he scanned the suspended lighting rig. "I half-expected they'd shove us into another glorified cupboard with a single bulb and call it a production."

  Jim studied the lines around Freddie's eyes, searching for any flicker of shared disorientation. "The Marquee did feel rather cramped."

  Freddie's eyebrows shot up. "The Marquee? Darling, we haven't been stuffed into that sardine tin in ages." He adjusted his collar, his fingers dancing over the fabric. "Manchester nearly killed me last week—that place was a bloody aircraft hangar. At least Hammersmith has the decency to be intimate without feeling like we're performing in someone's living room." He winked. "Perfect acoustics for my voice, too. The sound bounces back and kisses you."

  Before Jim could probe further, tape heads engaged with a barely audible click, and the opening sequence spilled through speakers worth more than the Marquee's entire sound system. Unlike yesterday's temperamental cassette player, these reel-to-reel machines delivered each note with pristine clarity, exposing subtleties he'd never detected before.

  The crowd's applause started as a ripple, building to a crashing wave as four silhouettes moved through the darkness. Jim's heartbeat accelerated despite himself.

  Lights snapped on with millisecond precision—a programmable system executing a choreographed sequence. Brian appeared first, his fingers already finding their home on the Red Special's neck, his face half-shadowed beneath his curls. John materialized stage left, acknowledging the audience's roar with nothing more than a slight nod before checking his bass tuning. Roger settled behind a gleaming kit twice the size of yesterday's cramped setup, his face obscured by strategic shadow patterns that made his blonde hair glow like a halo. Finally, Freddie stepped forward, arms spread wide as if physically gathering the audience's energy, the spotlight finding him with unerring precision.

  "Good evening, Hammersmith!" Freddie's voice rolled through the theater, each syllable distinct yet flowing like mercury. The sound system captured every nuance without distortion. "Are you ready for a little magic tonight?"

  The response hit Jim physically—not the crushing surge of bodies from the Marquee, but a concentrated wall of sound from fixed positions. These seated patrons channeled their energy vertically rather than horizontally, their enthusiasm no less intense for being contained in rows of plush seats.

  From his vantage point, Jim observed details invisible at the Marquee. Without the veil of cigarette smoke and poor sightlines, he could see Freddie's every facial micro-expression, the precise fingering of Brian's chords, the way Roger's drumsticks bounced infinitesimally before striking. The band moved with practiced confidence, each gesture expanded just enough to register in the furthest row without seeming exaggerated.

  Which meant they'd been playing venues this size for years. According to this reality, anyway.

  Each instrument occupied its own sonic territory without bleeding or competing. Jim could distinguish the individual strings in Brian's chords, the specific points where Freddie's vocal register shifted, the exact moment Roger's stick struck the crash cymbal. The Hammersmith's acoustic design didn't just make the music louder—it dissected it, presenting each component with scientific precision while preserving its emotional impact.

  Three songs in, as Freddie stepped to the microphone to introduce a ballad, Jim scanned the audience. The theater's graduated seating and focused lighting allowed him to pick out individual faces with unexpected clarity.

  Fifth row, center section—Claudia. Her leather jacket stood out against the deep red velvet seats like a raven perched among roses. The silver crown pendant at her throat caught a stray beam of light, sending a brief flash toward the ceiling. She sat with perfect posture, her attention fixed on the stage with analytical intensity.

  Bob remained motionless beside her, his hairs collecting blue reflections from the stage. Unlike those around him who shifted positions, whispered comments, or adjusted in their seats, he maintained an almost preternatural stillness. His focus on the performers had a quality of reverence, as if he were memorizing every detail for later contemplation.

  Jay, in stark contrast, fidgeted constantly. His fingers drummed against his knee, his head swiveled from stage to lighting rig to exit signs and back. As Brian's delicate guitar intro wove through the theater, Jay slipped his hand into his pocket and withdrew something that made Jim blink twice.

  The object lay flat in Jay's palm—thin as a playing card but glassy, with a surface that cast an eerie blue glow across his face. He raised it slightly, as if framing the stage, before Bob's elbow connected sharply with his ribs. Jay's shoulders sagged as he slipped the strange device back into his pocket.

  Jim frowned, his brain struggling to categorize what he'd just seen. Not a calculator—far too thin and without visible buttons. Not a pager or any communication device he recognized. Certainly not a camera, though Jay had positioned it like one. The glass-like surface had reflected stage lights in a way that suggested a screen of some kind, but no portable screen technology he knew of could be so thin or compact. These technical toys are new every day.

  The ballad concluded, pulling Jim's attention back to his immediate responsibilities. He watched stagehands glide across the stage during the brief transition, adjusting equipment with silent efficiency. A hint of theatrical fog—not the harsh chemical cloud from the Marquee's smoke machine but a refined, water-based vapor—drifted through the wings, carrying a faint sweet-herbal scent.

  As the show progressed, Jim found himself anticipating each lighting cue seconds before it happened. He knew exactly when Roger would execute a particular drum fill before his sticks even moved, when Freddie would approach a specific section of the stage before he took the first step. This knowledge existed in a strange quantum state—neither prediction nor memory but somehow both simultaneously, as if past and future occupied the same moment.

  The temperature in the wings crept upward as the lighting rig pumped out heat. A bead of sweat traced Jim's spine beneath his shirt. He loosened his tie with one finger, the silk sliding smoothly against his collar. His body continued executing its professional duties—monitoring sight lines, confirming sequences with the crew, checking audience reactions—while his mind grappled with the wrongness permeating his competing memories.

  The distinctive piano introduction to "Bohemian Rhapsody" cut through his thoughts. Freddie settled at the grand piano—a proper concert instrument, not the electronic keyboard that had barely fit on the Marquee's stage. The audience grew preternaturally still, an entire theater collectively holding its breath.

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  "Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?" Freddie's voice carried the opening lines with delicate precision, each word suspended in the perfect acoustics. Jim felt the questions like physical impacts against his sternum.

  The audience sat transfixed, those in the front twenty rows close enough to watch Freddie's fingers dance across the keys, to see the slight tension in his jaw as he reached for certain notes. Even Jay had stopped fidgeting, his attention captured despite himself. Bob leaned forward imperceptibly, the muscles in his neck tightening as if physically drawn toward the music.

  As the ballad section built toward Brian's guitar solo, Jim observed the sound engineers at their massive console. Four technicians instead of the Marquee's single overworked mixer, each responsible for specific frequency ranges. Their fingers moved with the precision of surgeons, making microscopic adjustments to maintain perfect balance as the music evolved.

  Brian's guitar solo erupted with scientific precision and raw emotion simultaneously. Each note occupied physical space in the theater, bouncing from carefully calculated angles in the architectural design. Jim watched the chief engineer give a slight nod of satisfaction as the solo peaked, then begin preparations for the most technically demanding section of the performance.

  The operatic middle section of "Bohemian Rhapsody" required pre-recorded tape—the layered harmonies impossible to reproduce live. In theaters like this, the technical challenge involved synchronizing playback with live elements while preserving the illusion of spontaneity.

  As the tape began, harmonized voices filled the space with otherworldly precision. "I see a little silhouetto of a man..." The audience responded viscerally, many mouthing the words, some singing aloud despite the formal setting. Through the Hammersmith's superior speaker system, Jim could hear details in the recording he'd never noticed before—subtle breath control, the specific way Freddie's voice split into harmonics on certain notes, the precise attack of each consonant.

  Then it happened.

  Midway through the operatic section, the audio... twisted. Not the familiar wow-and-flutter of a tape issue or the mechanical stretching of playback problems. Something fundamentally different. The vocal harmonies simultaneously accelerated and decelerated, creating an effect like reality itself being pulled in multiple directions at once. Freddie's layered voices separated into distinct streams that moved at different speeds before impossibly recombining.

  "Magnifico-o-o-o" stretched beyond its natural duration, syllables elongating like warm taffy, while "Bismillah!" compressed into a sharp staccato burst. The effect created a seasick sensation of time folding in upon itself.

  Jim snapped his attention to the sound engineers, watching their expressions transform from professional focus to naked alarm. The chief engineer's hands flew across the console, adjusting parameters that shouldn't have needed adjustment, attempting to correct a problem that defied categorization.

  "What the hell?" The engineer's voice crackled through Jim's radio, tight with tension. "The tape's running at normal speed but the output is—I can't even describe what I'm hearing."

  For seven eternal seconds, the audio continued its impossible behavior. The theater's precise acoustics only intensified the effect—each distortion stood out with clinical clarity, separated from the others like distinct instruments. It wasn't merely wrong; it was wrong in ways analog equipment simply couldn't produce—like digital artifacts from some technology not yet invented.

  Then, as abruptly as it began, the effect vanished. The operatic section resumed with pristine fidelity, sliding seamlessly into the hard rock portion as if nothing had happened. The transition was so flawless that Jim pressed his fingernails into his palm, needing the sharp pain to confirm he hadn't imagined the entire episode.

  The audience's reaction told him he hadn't. Confusion rippled through the seats—foreheads creased, glances exchanged, heads tilted in puzzlement. In the fifth row, Jay leaned toward Bob, lips moving rapidly. Bob's only response was a slight narrowing of his eyes as he maintained his focus on the stage. Claudia's expression remained carefully neutral, though her fingers found the crown pendant at her throat, turning it slowly between her fingertips.

  On stage, the band showed no reaction whatsoever. They launched into the rock section with perfect synchronization—Roger's drums thundering, Brian's guitar snarling, John's bass providing the foundation, and Freddie transformed from pianist to prowling frontman in an instant.

  "So you think you can stone me and spit in my eye?" Freddie's voice carried both defiance and exhilaration as he stalked the stage. The audience's momentary confusion dissolved, their attention recaptured by the physical spectacle before them.

  Jim's radio erupted with urgent chatter between technicians.

  "What just happened with the tape playback?"

  "Nothing on our end—speed consistent, heads clean, levels normal."

  "Could it be the amplification chain? Some kind of phase problem?"

  "Impossible. That wasn't phase cancellation—that was something else entirely."

  Jim pressed the transmit button. "Sound team, report status," he said, his voice steadier than the tremor in his fingers suggested.

  "Whatever it was, it's resolved itself," the chief engineer replied, forced professionalism barely masking his bewilderment. "All systems functioning normally now. No explanation for the anomaly."

  "Document everything for the post-show briefing," Jim instructed, his mouth dry. "Let's focus on getting through the remaining numbers."

  As the song built toward its contemplative conclusion, Jim's thoughts raced through possible explanations. Power surge affecting the playback equipment? Interference from another electronic system? Deliberate sabotage? He dismissed the last almost immediately—the effect had been too complex, too specifically timed to be intentional disruption.

  What disturbed him most was how quickly everyone normalized what had happened. The audience had already returned to the performance, their confusion evaporating like morning dew. The technicians, after their initial alarm, had resumed their duties with only occasional puzzled glances at their equipment. Even the radio chatter had ceased, as if the brain refused to maintain focus on the inexplicable.

  Only Jim seemed to hold the sharp-edged memory of what had occurred—and Claudia, whose expression as she watched her charges suggested she was processing the event on a level different from those around her. When she turned slightly, her eyes finding Jim's across the theater, the slight nod she gave him communicated volumes. She had noticed, she had recognized the significance, and most importantly, she hadn't immediately rationalized it away as everyone else had.

  The song concluded to thunderous applause, Freddie's final "Any way the wind blows..." hanging in the air with gossamer delicacy before Roger's gentle cymbal tap provided closure. The audience rose in unison, their applause transforming from appreciation to physical expression of catharsis. Individual handclaps merged into a single organism, the sound bouncing from the theater's architectural curves to create a sustained roar.

  Jim's fingers curled around the wooden rail, squeezing until his knuckles whitened. The warping effect had felt disturbing in its familiarity—not from the Marquee, whose primitive system couldn't have produced anything so sophisticated—but from somewhere else, sometime else. The sensation connected with his dual memories in ways he couldn't yet articulate but that raised the hairs on the back of his neck.

  For the rest of the performance, Jim maintained his professional facade, directing stagehands, confirming cues, managing the thousand details that defined his responsibilities. Yet beneath this practiced efficiency, his stomach twisted as he replayed the audio distortion, the strange glass device in Jay's hand, Claudia's knowing expression, and the impossible memories that inhabited his consciousness with increasing insistence.

  During the final number before the encore, Jim noticed something else wrong. The audience reaction followed a script he didn't remember reading but somehow knew by heart—waves of applause occurring with mathematical precision rather than emotional spontaneity. Specific whoops and cheers emerged at exactly the right moments, as if following some predetermined pattern.

  "Excellent crowd tonight," commented a stagehand, adjusting a floor cable. "So responsive."

  Jim nodded, his throat too tight for speech. The audience was responsive—unnaturally so, as if they somehow anticipated each musical peak before it arrived.

  As the band left the stage before the encore, Jim found himself frozen at the intersection of responsibility and mounting dread. He should be coordinating the encore preparation, ensuring water bottles were positioned, towels refreshed, instruments checked. Instead, his eyes remained fixed on the fifth row, where Claudia leaned toward Jay, her fingers digging visibly into his forearm as she whispered something that made his face drain of color. Bob sat beside them, utterly still, his gaze fixed on the empty stage as if watching a performance nobody else could see.

  Jim forced his attention back to immediate concerns, physically turning his body away from the audience. Pursuing these observations threatened a reality he wasn't prepared to confront. Better to focus on the concrete, the explainable, the professional requirements that had defined his existence.

  "Two-minute warning for encore," he said into his radio, the familiar words scratching his dry throat. "Lighting preset three, follow spot on center stage."

  The practiced routines of stage management offered temporary shelter from the questions circling his consciousness—questions about memory, about reality, about whether anything he experienced was genuine. For now, he would maintain the performance, both the band's and his own, postponing the inevitable reckoning.

  After all, performances were his business—and currently, managing this one seemed safer than questioning whether any of it was real. The audio distortion became simply another technical issue to document, file, and ultimately dismiss, rather than a tear in the fabric of reality itself.

  At least, that's what he told himself as he prepared for the encore, the crowd's rhythmic clapping echoing through the theater with mechanical precision, maintaining perfect time like a metronome that had learned to mimic human enthusiasm but hadn't quite mastered human spontaneity.