Chapter Text
The rain in Manila usually smelled like wet asphalt and diesel exhaust, but on the rooftop of a half-abandoned BPO building in the mid-2020s, it tasted like pure, unadulterated family drama.
"Oh, so we’re doing a full-on Mission Impossible action sequence now? In this economy?!"
Girlie wiped the rainwater from her eyes, her breathing ragged but her posture completely dramatic. Bright blonde hair tied up in a high side-ponytail while the rest of her back hair are loose with a massive checkered pink bow, rocking a frilly pastel-pink jacket, a pleated plaid skirt, and knee-high platform pink boots with laces all the way up. She was backed against the rusted perimeter railing of the roof, twenty stories above the glittering chaos of the city. Opposite her stood three men. They weren’t your average street thugs; these guys were wearing identical, tailored black suits, crisp white shirts, and earpieces.
"Target is cornered," the lead man in black muttered into his collar. He looked at Girlie with dead, unblinking eyes. "Hand over the family trust documents, Ms. Valencia, and we can make this quick. Your stepmother sends her regards. She wants to ensure her own daughter becomes the sole heir to the estate."
"First of all, excuse me," Girlie barked, her half-American, half-Filipina accent cutting through the thunder like a whip. She pointed a manicured pink finger at him. "My name is Girlie, not 'Target.' Second of all, tell that wicked stepmother of mine that if she wants the inheritance so badly, she should have invested in a better skincare routine instead of hiring you copy-pasted government rejects! Look at this outfit! It's custom! Do you know how hard it is to get bloodstains out of pastel pink?!"
She gestured dramatically to her outfit. But behind her outrage, her mind was racing. Her evil stepmother had finally snapped, sending literal hitmen to eliminate her so her stepsister could inherit everything. They had ambushed her at her apartment, chased her up five flights of emergency stairs, and clearly weren't looking to negotiate.
The lead agent didn't smile. He just nodded to the two men flanking him. They reached into their jackets.
"Wow. No talking it out? No offering me a snack first?" Girlie glanced around frantically. She didn’t have her Arnis sticks from college PE class with her. All she had in her hand was her sturdy, long-stemmed pink umbrella with a thick acrylic handle.
Well, a stick is a stick.
With a fluid, practiced motion, she flipped the umbrella, gripping it tightly near the base like a traditional baston. She shifted her weight into a low, balanced Sinawali stance, her high platform boots gripping the slick concrete as best as they could.
"Come on, then, Mga Kulugo," Girlie taunted, a with a smirk plastering her face. "Let's see if those suits have stretch fabric."
The first agent lunged forward, throwing a heavy, straight right punch aimed directly at her jaw.
Girlie didn't flinch. Her Arnis training kicked in. She parried the punch with the shaft of her umbrella, redirecting his force outward, and simultaneously brought the heavy handle down in a vicious diagonal strike—a textbook buena mano—across his collarbone. The thick acrylic cracked against his shoulder. The agent grunted, dropping to one knee.
Before the second man could react, Girlie pivoted on her heel, utilizing the momentum of her turn. She executed a rapid, double-strike weaving pattern—the classic Sinawali—striking the second agent across his extended forearm to drop the taser he was holding, and following up with a sharp thrust of the umbrella tip directly into his solar plexus. He doubled over, gasping for air.
"Take that!" Girlie yelled, her blonde ponytail bouncing. "You think because I wear heart-shaped earrings I don't know how to do a redonda strike?!"
The lead agent, realizing his men were being dismantled by a girl looking like a literal anime pop star, drew a silenced pistol from his holster.
Girlie’s eyes widened. "Okay, wait, that is cheating! Gun against umbrella is so low-budget!"
As the leader raised the weapon, Girlie scrambled backward, intending to vault over a raised concrete ventilation shaft for cover. She leaped onto the slick, wet ledge of the building's decorative facade.
That was her final mistake.
The rain-slicked concrete offered zero traction for her thick pink platform boots. Her heel hit a patch of wet moss and completely gave way.
"Ay, puta—!"
Time slowed to a crawl. Her umbrella clattered away into the darkness. Her fingers clawed desperately at the empty air, but the momentum was already carrying her backward, over the precipice.
The last thing she saw was the lead agent looking over the edge, his face illuminated by a sudden, blinding flash of violet lightning that didn't come from the clouds, but seemed to tear open the very fabric of reality beneath her.
Then, there was no air. There was only a violent, sickening pull that felt less like falling and more like being sucked through a wormhole.
*-*-*-*-*-*
1987 – Los Angeles, California
The night air in downtown Los Angeles was thick with smog, neon lights, and the distinct, gritty edge of the late 1980s.
Inside the sleek, darkened interior of a luxury black limousine, Michael Jackson sat quietly. This was the Bad era. His hair was longer, curlier, and edgier; his outfit was an elaborate black leather jacket covered in an excessive amount of silver buckles, zippers, and straps. He looked sharp, dangerous, and incredibly cool. He was listening to a demo tape of "Smooth Criminal," tapping his fingers against his knee.
Beside him, Bill, his towering head of security, looked out the window. "Almost back to the hotel, Mike. Street's a bit quiet tonight."
"That's fine, Bill. I like the quiet," Michael murmured, his voice soft but carrying that confident, mature undertone of his late-20s self.
Suddenly, the sky above the limousine didn't just flash—it shattered.
A bizarre, localized crackle of purple electricity erupted directly above the moving vehicle. It sounded like an absolute explosion.
Before anyone could react, a loud, terrifying, metallic CRUNCH echoed through the chassis of the limo. The entire roof of the luxury vehicle buckled drastically downward. The glass of the rear windshield shattered into a spiderweb of cracks. The car fishtailed wildly as the driver slammed on the brakes, the tires screeching loudly against the asphalt before coming to a violent halt.
"Michael! Get down!" Bill yelled, instantly throwing his massive frame over Michael to shield him from a potential ambush.
Silence descended on the street, save for the ticking of the damaged car engine.
"Bill... what was that? A gunshot?" Michael asked, pushing himself up, his eyes wide as he adjusted his heavy leather jacket.
"I don't know. Stay here." Bill drew his firearm, cautiously opening the heavy door of the limo and stepping out into the cool night air. The driver was already out, staring at the top of the car with his jaw hanging completely open.
"Sir... you're not going to believe this," the driver whispered.
Bill walked around to the side of the dented vehicle. Lying squarely in the collapsed center of the limousine’s roof was a girl.
She looked completely out of place. Her bright blonde hair, massive pink bow, frilly pink jacket, and knee-high platform boots that contrasted wildly with the gritty, dark LA street. She was completely unconscious, her head lolling to the side. Clutched tightly in her right hand was a small, sleek rectangle of black glass with no buttons—a modern smartphone. Falling out of her unzipped pocket was a thick leather wallet and a strange, folding square panel covered in tiny blue glass grids—a solar-powered power bank.
"Did... did someone throw her from a building?" the driver stammered, looking up at the empty sky.
Michael, unable to sit still, slid out of the backseat despite Bill's protests. His silver buckles clinked loudly in the quiet night. He gasped, his hand flying to his mouth as he saw the girl. "Oh my god... is she okay?"
Bill reached up, pressing two fingers against her neck. "She’s got a pulse. It’s steady, but she’s out cold. Mike, this looks like an attempted murder. Someone must have dropped her from a helicopter or an overpass to eliminate her. She looks like an innocent victim."
"We have to get her to a hospital, Bill! Right now!" Michael insisted, his voice sharp with urgency. "Look at her, she’s hurt! Use the car phone, call ahead to the private clinic. We can't leave her here!"
Together, Bill and the driver lifted the unconscious, pink-clad girl off the ruined roof of the limo. As they laid her across the back seat of the car, Michael sat opposite her, watching her with a mix of intense worry and absolute bewilderment. Why was she dressed like a futuristic cartoon character? And where on earth did she come from?
*-*-*-*-*-*
Two Hours Later – Century City Medical Center
The world smelled like bleach and industrial lavender.
Girlie’s eyelids felt like they had been glued shut with industrial-grade eyelash adhesive. Her head was throbbing with a rhythm that felt exactly like a bad remix playing at maximum volume inside her skull.
"Ugh..." she groaned, her voice sounding like sandpaper. "Did anyone get the license plate of that cloud...?"
"Oh! She's waking up. Doctor, she’s moving!"
The voice was soft, high-pitched, but held a distinct, crisp confidence.
Girlie forced her eyes open. The harsh, fluorescent lights of a hospital room blinded her for a moment. As her vision blurred into focus, she realized she was lying in a massive, incredibly plush private hospital bed.
"Where... am I? St. Luke's?" Girlie muttered, rubbing her temples. She looked down at her arm. She had an IV drip attached to her. "Oh no. Oh no, no, no."
She panicked, immediately trying to sit up. "The co-pay. The room rates. This isn't a ward, this is a suite! Nurse! Nurse, discharge me right now! I only have a few thousand pesos in my GCash and my HMO doesn't cover luxury falls!"
"Miss, miss, please, calm down. You're safe," the soft voice spoke again.
Girlie turned her head so fast her neck popped. Standing at the foot of her bed was a man. He was wearing a striking, heavy black leather jacket absolutely covered in silver buckles and zippers. His hair was a glorious, shoulder-length mane of curls, and his eyes were sharp, intense, yet filled with deep concern.
Girlie blinked once. Twice. She rubbed her eyes.
"Okay, wow," Girlie whispered, pointing a trembling finger at him. "The head trauma is real. I am literally hallucinating Bad era Michael Jackson. Sir, your cosplay is a ten out of ten, the buckles are immaculate, but I cannot afford to tip a performer right now."
The man looked confused, glancing back at Bill standing by the door, and then at a doctor in a white coat who was holding a clipboard.
"Um... I'm not a cosplayer, miss," Michael said gently, taking a step closer, the silver buckles on his boots clinking. "I'm Michael. Michael Jackson. You fell onto my car tonight. Do you remember what happened? Who did this to you?"
Girlie stared at him. She looked at his face—the iconic, sharp features of the late 80s. Then she looked past him at the wall. There was a calendar hanging next to the white board. It had a picture of a vintage landscape, and at the top, in bold, terrifying letters, it read: OCTOBER 1987.
She looked at the bedside table. Resting there was her dead iPhone, her leather wallet, and her solar-powered charger.
"October... 1987?" Girlie whispered. She looked back at Michael Jackson. Then she looked at the doctor. "What year is it?"
"It's 1987, young lady," the doctor said kindly, stepping forward with a penlight. "You suffered a very nasty fall. Can you tell me your name? Do you know where you are?"
"I... I'm in America?" Girlie asked, her voice cracking. "But I was just in Manila. There were men in black sent by my evil stepmother because she wants her daughter to be the sole heir... I was fighting them with a pink umbrella..."
The doctor sighed softly, exchanging a worried, knowing glance with Michael. He made a quick note on his clipboard. Temporal disorientation. Retrograde amnesia with severe persecutory delusions.
"She thinks her family sent secret agents to throw her off a building," the doctor whispered to Michael, keeping his voice low. "The blunt force trauma has clearly induced a severe state of amnesia. Her mind is creating a wild, fictional scenario to cope with the trauma of whoever actually tried to kill her and pushed her off that roof."
"Amnesia?" Michael repeated, his heart aching for the strange, brightly dressed girl. "So... she doesn't even know reality right now?"
"Excuse me! I can hear you, clipboard boy!" Girlie shouted, sitting up straight, instantly flaring up at the disrespect. "I don't have amnesia, okay? My name is Girlie Valencia! I am twenty-four years old, I am a Taurus, and I am from the future! I didn't get pushed, I slipped because the roof was wet! And why are you using a clipboard? Where are your iPads?! Where is the Wi-Fi?!"
The doctor slowly stepped back, nodding solemnly at Michael. "Classic defense mechanism. The mind rejects the reality of the attempted murder. We'll need to keep her under observation for a few weeks."
"Weeks?!" Girlie’s voice hit a glass-shattering soprano. She looked at the luxury room, the automated bed, the private setup. She pointed a manicured finger at the doctor. "Mister, do you know how much a room like this costs per day? If I stay here for weeks, my future kids will still be paying off this bill! I'm leaving!"
She pulled at the tape on her IV, determined to rip it out.
"No, please, don't do that!" Michael rushed forward, his hands gently but firmly stopping her wrists. The silver chains on his jacket rattled. "Please, Girlie... is it Girlie?"
Girlie froze, looking down at the buckled leather sleeves near her arms, then up into the legendary eyes of the biggest pop star on the planet.
"Yes. Girlie. With an 'ie', not a 'y'," she muttered, suddenly losing a fraction of her bravado because, well, Michael Jackson was currently holding her hands.
"Girlie, please don't worry about the money," Michael said, his voice dropping into that smooth, reassuring tone. He gave her a warm smile. "I've already taken care of everything. The doctors, the room, the treatment... it's all on my account. You don't have to pay a single cent."
Girlie squinted at him, her eyes narrowing into two sharp, highly suspicious slits. She leaned forward, scanning his face.
"Oh... so you're rich-rich? The real deal?" Girlie asked, her sharp English cutting through the tense room. "What's the catch, Mike? Are you going to harvest my organs? Because let me tell you right now, my liver is fifty percent iced coffee, forty percent stress, and ten percent street food. You do not want it for the black market."
Michael stared at her for a beat, completely stunned by the bizarre, rapid-fire response. Bill shifted uncomfortably by the door, clutching his holster.
Then, slowly, a soft chuckle escaped Michael's lips. The chuckle turned into a bright, breathless laugh—the iconic, high-pitched giggle. He covered his face, his shoulders shaking, the silver buckles on his jacket catching the light.
"No, no organs," Michael laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I promise. I just want to make sure you're safe. You fell on my car, remember? It's the least I can do."
Girlie slumped back against her pillows, crossing her arms over her chest, her big pink bow askew. She looked at the dead iPhone on the nightstand, then at the King of Pop laughing at her bedside in 1987.
"Great," Girlie muttered to herself in rapid Tagalog. "Nasa 1987 na nga ako, mukha pa akong baliw sa harap ni Michael Jackson. Lord, paki-delete na lang ako sa earth." (I'm really in 1987, and I look crazy in front of Michael Jackson. Lord, please just delete me from the earth.)
"What language was that?" Michael asked, completely fascinated by her.
"Tagalog, bestie," Girlie sighed, completely exhausted. "Get used to it, because if I'm stuck in the eighties, we are going to have a lot of communication issues."