The backstage air was thick with tension. Amid crates of stadium props and muffled arguments, Arthur Eros—the flamboyant frontman of Sentinels of Eros—sat gripping his blood-stained guitar handle. Sweat dripped down his temples, not from the show, but from what he knew was coming.
Somewhere in the maze of cables and crushed energy drinks, Bill paced furiously. His voice finally cut through the noise.
"Janet, it's Arthur again! His damn ego's going to be the end of this band."
He stopped mid-step, rage bubbling to the surface. "You know what? I quit."
"Bill, wait—" Janet started, her voice cracking.
"Don't." He spun toward her, eyes glassy. "We're finished. I'm done playing clean-up for this lunatic."
Bill stormed across the room and shoved Arthur, who barely reacted, just adjusted his red leather jacket and looked out at the empty stadium.
"Great job, Arthur! You blew it again!" Bill yelled, voice rising. "We bust our asses to earn respect, and what do you do? Pull a gun on a fan?!"
In the distance, red and blue lights danced against the concrete walls—police were closing in.
Arthur stood slowly, as if letting the moment settle around him. "Bill, I won't be disrespected. I don't care who it is. I'm no man's fool."
"You were abducted by aliens, then obsessed with ancient ruins, and now you're some egomaniacal rock god?!" Bill shot back. "You've lost it."
Arthur leaned casually against a crate, shirtless beneath his scarlet leather jacket, chains rattling with every movement. His voice was calm, detached.
"Greatness chooses strange vessels. Maybe fame didn't ruin me. Maybe it just revealed who I was all along."
Bill shook his head, scoffing. "I thought you were getting help. Guess some people don't change."
Arthur's eyes narrowed. "No... some evolve. Some just stand still and call it growth."
The clash of voices faded as police officers entered, cuffing Arthur without resistance. He walked with a smirk, his guitar abandoned, the spotlight finally off him.
As they led him past Janet, he paused just long enough to speak.
"Maybe the aliens would've understood me better than you all ever did. So much for your next Jimi Hendrix."
Janet looked away. She couldn't watch this part of the show.
Later That Evening | City Jail
Inside the dim confines of his cell, Arthur Eros sat on the bottom bunk, his fingers tracing circles against the wall as memories flickered through his mind—Janet's trembling voice, Bill's disappointment, the roar of the crowd. In the stillness, he began making peace with the path that had brought him here.
From the top bunk, a voice broke the silence.
"You're that rockstar, right? Arthur Eros?"
Arthur blinked, surprised. A small smile tugged at his lips.
"That's right," he said, softly. "Arthur Eros, in the flesh."
The silence returned, this time filled with quiet understanding. The cellmate leaned over the edge of the bunk.
"My dad used to play your records non-stop. Said you reminded him of the old legends. Hendrix, Mercury... You made him feel young again."
Arthur turned to face him, the moonlight cutting across the bars and glinting in his eyes.
"Thanks. That… means a lot. All I've ever wanted was to pour out everything inside—rage, love, fire—and share it with millions. Hell, I'd perform for an entire colony if I could…"
Before he could finish, a searing white light enveloped the room. There was no time to scream, no time to blink.
Elsewhere | Unidentified Alien Vessel
Arthur gasped. Cold metal greeted his bare feet as he staggered upright. He blinked against the neon-blue lighting of the chamber, the smell of sterilized steel in the air.
"What in the blue hell…?"
Before him stood a figure in sleek tactical armor—green, gold, and black. The man's silhouette was sharp, imposing, otherworldly. Behind him, visible through the starboard glass, floated Earth, glowing like a jewel in the void.
The figure stepped forward, removing his helmet with deliberate calm. Beneath the armor was a youthful face with pointed ears, curly blond hair streaked with brown, and a piercing gaze that seemed oddly familiar.
"Arthur," he said, voice calm but firm. "We've met before—though the circumstances were very different."
Arthur's breath caught. This wasn't just some alien bounty hunter.
It was the start of something far bigger.
"I am Tommy Daystar from the Paragon galaxy. It is possible that I could offer you a bribe to persuade you to assist me."
He took a remote control from his pocket and pressed a button, causing his guitar to teleport onto his starship.
Present Day...
Arthur jolted awake, his body drenched in cold sweat, the phantom echoes of Ahn Sannamoon's voice fading into silence. His limbs ached, his wounds pulsed in protest, and his temple throbbed with the weight of the visions that had consumed his sleep.
"Goddamn deities and their cryptic dream lectures..." he muttered, dragging himself upright.
Distant voices trickled through the dark corridor beyond his cell, muffled and alien. He squinted, straining to make sense of the garbled sounds. "Would it kill you to speak English for once?" he called out hoarsely, stumbling toward the bars.
As he reached for them—ZAP!—a blinding jolt of energy surged through the metal, hurling him backward like a rag doll. He landed hard on the cold floor, wheezing as pain flared through his ribs.
"Ugh... I hate space prisons," Arthur groaned, curling slightly. The exhaustion from his previous battles was catching up—he'd bought time for the rebellion, but his body was paying the price.
Moments later, heavy footsteps echoed through the corridor. They stopped just outside his cell.
Arthur forced his head up. "Oh great. If it isn't the Zen-barian fashion disaster himself."
Thraq, the towering green-skinned warlord, stepped into view. His ceremonial armor shimmered—ornate, ridiculous, and unnecessarily extravagant. Golden trim, a swirling violet cape, and an emerald circlet sat atop his polished dome like a trophy only he thought he'd earned.
"Seriously, Thraq... who are you trying to impress with that outfit? Galactic prom night?" Arthur smirked, his voice hoarse but unrelenting.
Thraq's gaze narrowed, but he didn't rise to the bait—not verbally, at least. He moved forward with deliberate control, stopping just short of the electrified bars.
"You should be honored," Thraq said in his deep, gravelly tone. "You're witnessing the rebirth of order—of dominion. Your chaos has festered across galaxies for too long. But now, your rebellion ends here. Your noise is just that—noise. While you dance and scream, a far greater reckoning rises."
Arthur coughed, half-laughing, half-wincing. "Is that what this is? Another power grab with a fresh coat of 'righteousness'? Tell me—does Empress La'sylix know you're parading around in daddy's cape pretending you run the galaxy? You really think you've outsmarted her?"
Thraq's silence was smug.
That silence told Arthur everything.
"You conniving freak. You teamed up with her sister?" Arthur growled. "She's using you, and you're too drunk on delusion to see it. I knew I shouldn't have trusted you Zen-barians. All you know is betrayal. Diplomacy isn't in your blood—it's treachery with extra steps."
Thraq's grin widened. He leaned in slightly, savoring Arthur's fury.
"My loyalty is to the inevitable," he replied. "The Princess sees the truth in that. Our pact ensures the rise of something greater than either of us could achieve alone. And you, pet, played your role perfectly."
With that, Thraq turned on his heel, his heavy boots echoing as he marched away—each step a declaration of arrogance.
Arthur lay there, the static hum of his cell the only sound remaining. He stared up at the dim ceiling, gritting his teeth.
"Damn it," he whispered. "We're running out of time."