The Eras Of Michael Jackson: Brotherhood

Prologue

*Warning: This story contains several instances of mature language and situations, viewer discretion is advised. ~LisaPhoenix*

It's been years since the whole mansion's been completely silent, so silent it's shattering to hear. Since all of the other Eras left, it's been hollow and lifeless. Michael remembers the past years when each of the Eras started going, some departures were sad, while some were heated, but he still missed them being in the house. Away from the media and the tabloids, luckily he hasn't seen or heard any events involving them, so at least there was one less thing to worry about.

As for him, it's been rough physically and mentally. Michael couldn't come up with the great work he's done before. Some days he would be in the studio for hours trying to come up with something that could rival his previous successful albums. Yet nothing would come about in the studio, which would result in him sitting in the chair, staring at the soundboard.

Physically, he started to lose a lot of weight, more weight than usual despite eating regularly. For a while, he's been experiencing more pain than normal, his muscles started to ache severely. It became hard to move, let alone fluidly when it came to performing his signature dance moves. This feeling fucked with him mentally, because he was losing his mojo, his very being that made him the legend that he is, that essence. An essence that waned before but quickly snapped back like it was nothing.

Tonight was another type of beast that plagued him. He's been sick and weakened before, but this feeling was severe. This was nothing he could sleep off this time, he's felt this pain before but this time the pain only got worse and worse every second.

The oxygen he breathed in felt like razor blades slicing through his ribs, he could hear his joints cracking louder, like his fingers snapping to the rhythm of his own songs. Each step was lethargic and off-balanced, as he grabbed onto the wall for support, he knew where he had to go, and what he had to do.

He walked like a corpse, his breathing was shaky as his body was suffering. As he made his way into the studio, he sat down and grabbed a pair of headphones, he turned on the recording signal and pushed up the buttons on the soundboard. His mind was racing for a minute until it suddenly stopped and became clear, as one of his most iconic anthems blared through his ears.

The lights in the studio flickered as the volume grew louder, and the sound waves rocked the table, pounding the walls as he shouted, "Who's Bad?!" through the musical ruckus.

Suddenly, a dark figure appeared before him in the isolation booth. Michael staggered up and switched on the light. Once the light came on, he sighed with relief, at least in his weakened state didn't interfere with his summoning abilities.