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Chapter Text

"Alright boys, let's run Iron Fist again." Lemmy growled. It was the band's final day at Morgan Studios, and unbeknownst to them..... their final day in the year 1982. Phil counted the band in on what they had decided would be the eponymous lead single to their upcoming album. The band knew they had to put their entire Motorheadussies into this one, because they had to follow up on the commercial success of their seminal album Ace of Spades (1980). If this album flopped, they could lose their deal with Bronze Records.

Eddie stopped the band in the middle of the take. "Ay, Charlie, turn up the volume in my monitors would ya? I can hardly fuckin' hear myself!" Charles slid the fader up on the mixer, but felt a sudden jolt. He watched from the mixing booth as the members of Motorhead vanished in a flash of light.

"Bloody fuckin' 'ell." Lemmy mumbled.

"Got the wind knocked out of me." said Phil.

"Did they let a fucking donkey in the studio?!" said Eddie. "What kind of grounding issue causes everyone's monitors to electrocute them?! Also where the fuck are we?!"

It seemed that the band was no longer in Morgan Studios. They were outside, and the ground was covered in an inch's worth of snow. Lemmy spotted a football game going on in the distance.

"Must be one of them World War I reenactment groups. Look at those Pickelhaube helmets. Always wanted one of those."

"No time for your German shite, Lemmy!" Eddie snapped. "We need to figure out how the shock knocked us clean out of the studio and all the way over to this football field. And how we're not fucking dead because of it!"

"Awfully uneven for a football field, innit?" Phil remarked. Just then, one of the football players noticed the band sitting on the ground and decided to hurry over in their direction.

"Who are you lot?" the man said curtly. "You Germans?"

"Wh- no. We were just at the stu-" Lemmy tried to explain but was interrupted.

"Why are you decorated with German medals?" the man barked. "And why aren't any of you in uniform? What division are you from?"

"I uh. Bought them." Lemmy said. "We're Motorhead. I'm Lemmy Kilmister, these two are Phil Taylor and Eddie Clarke."

"I'm not familiar with any Motorhead division." said the man. "You'd better get straight with me right now boys, or I'll have you all sent to London and charged with desertion."

"London!" Eddie exclaimed. "Yes, we need to get back to London. Where are we and how do we get back?"

"I see." said the man. "You boys are shellshocked. We're just outside of Ostend. I imagine you all probably fled combat in Artois helping out the French. I hear it's not going well over there. You're lucky you got here when you did, we've declared a truce in honour of Christmas. I reckon a game of football would do you boys some good." The man helped the members of Motorhead get off their feet, and introduced himself as he did so. "I'm Colonel Jack Seely. I'll be your supervising officer until I can return you to your division." Colonel Seely made his way back to the football match while the band tagged along a few feet behind.

"I can't tell if this bloke is just really into it or if there's something else going on 'ere." Lemmy whispered.

"Fellas," said Phil, "I think we need to consider the possibility that we've..."

"...travelled through time." said Eddie.

Chapter Text

The Germans were winning 3-1 before the boys from Motorhead joined in on the fun, but the final score ended up being 5-2 for the Brits. The German soldiers had taken a particular liking to Lemmy due to his affinity for German memorabilia. Fortunately, nothing he was wearing that day was explicitly from the Third Reich, which hadn't happened yet. He really didn't know how he would've explained that one. Lemmy was initially worried that he would have to battle accusations of stolen valour from the German soldiers, but none of them especially seemed to care. They were just too enamoured with the notion that a British man would ever wear an iron cross at all. Lemmy was impressed by the soldiers' excellent command of the English language. One soldier, Arne, took a moment to speak with Lemmy after the conclusion of the match.

"Strange, isn't it?" Arne said. "We are so used to the sounds of gunshots and explosions that such a serene silence now seems deafening. We're supposed to hate each other enough to shatter one of our most sacred commandments as Christians. Thou shalt not kill, and yet we all have blood on our hands. Every one of my bullets that pierces another man hurts as if I had shot myself. We have the audacity to prostrate ourselves before Christ with this truce on the day of His birth when every other day we spit in His face and everything He died for. This hypocrisy poisons my heart. I fear I am going to Hell the instant a rain drop from these eternal bullet storms finally pierces my own skin. I fear we all are going to Hell for what we're doing out here. This all just feels so unreal. To think that just yesterday we were at each other's throats, and that tomorrow the bloodshed will continue. But here, in the moment, against all odds, we stand together. We play football. It's a beautiful yet ugly thing. Beautiful that we can come together to cease the killing, but the notion that the killing occurs to begin with is hideous."

"Crikey you've got quite a mouth on you, mate." Lemmy replied.

"Heh. Yes, my apologies." Arne said. "I needed to tell someone about this. My comrades wouldn't understand. I guess I don't know why you would either. But it's in my nature for words to flow freely from me like an open wound. I was a poet back home, trying to get published to no avail. I don't wish to have my words scrutinised in colleges, like Goethe or Wordsworth, but my words will never touch someone's heart if they rot away in a drawer full of manuscripts, you know?"

"You know," said Lemmy. "I'm somewhat of a poet myself. A songwriter, more like. If my boys and I had our instruments maybe we could've played something for you lot."

"Well Lemmy, my friend," said Arne. "Maybe I'll hear your songs on the radio someday."

~ ~ ~

Colonel Seely climbed down into the trench to see that the soldiers had lent the Motorhead boys some of their rations, as per his orders. He produced his cigarette case from a satchel.

"Smoke, anyone?" he asked.

"Lord yes," said Lemmy, "There's nothing I need more at the minute."

The colonel lit Lemmy a cigarette and briefed the band on the situation.

"The fighting should resume in a few hours." said the colonel. "I've sent a messenger to the port in Dunkirk telling them to expect your arrival. They'll have a small boat prepared for you so that you may return to London for medical examination at Horse Guards. If they deem you fit for combat, they'll figure out what division you're from and decide if they'll deploy you as is or reassign you."

"One small problem, Colonel," said Eddie. "We don't know how to ride horses."

"And we don't know how to get to Dunkirk." said Phil.

"Blast!" Seely exclaimed, "The shellshock is worse than I thought. I can have you lot ride in an empty supply wagon and have one of my boys take you."

The journey to Dunkirk took about three hours on a rough path along the ocean. As promised, a boat was ready for them at the port. It was small and uncomfortable, but certainly adequate. After an unpleasant journey, they made it back to England. The skipper dropped the boys off at a port in Dover, and were given a few shillings to stay the night in a shady inn. Nothing they weren't used to from their early days of touring, just more old-fashioned. They elected to sleep on the floor on account of the bedbugs and general poor comfort of the cots.

"You know that part in the Lord of the Rings where they stay in that inn in Brie?" Phil said.

"Yeah, what of it?" Lemmy replied.

"That's what it feels like right now." Phil said.

"Very insightful, Phil." said Lemmy.

~ ~ ~

The next day they were able to use their remaining funds from Seely's men to buy train tickets. They took the Chatham Main Line to Victoria station, getting various funny looks from the passengers who likely thought them to be vagrants. At this point Lemmy was hiding all of his German memorabilia in his pockets, as he figured the look wouldn't fare well in Great War era Britain.

When the boys finally disembarked, they found themselves in a London far different from what they were used to. The streets were littered with Model Ts and Rolls Royces. It was disorienting; the band would need directions if they wanted to get anywhere. Unfortunately, the what few pedestrians there were, clad in their top hats and thick fur coats, refused to talk to them. They tried asking what felt like dozens of people, but all of them turned away and went to comfort their wives who seemed like they were about to faint from the sight of them. Eventually, Lemmy came up with an idea.

"So these blokes with silver spoons up their arses think we're tramps, yeah?" he said. "I reckon we should go speak to our own."

The boys disappeared down a dark alleyway and found a group of six lads who looked straight out of Peaky Blinders smoking and playing knucklebones behind some old tavern.

"Hey fellas." Lemmy greeted them with an awkward smile. "We was just wondering how we could get to Horse Guards from here."

The largest of the alleyway boys took a drag from his cob pipe and turned to his friends.

"These blokes wanna join the army!" the boy exclaimed. He ran up to the members of Motorhead and started marching in circles. "God save the king!" he declared, mockingly. "I shall lay down my life for you and your stupid shiny hat!" The boy dropped the act, before saying in a more solemn tone, "Y'know, you can die just as well in your own country, mate." With a slight jerk of his head, the boy sicked his goons onto the members of Motorhead. In a flash, the bandmates were all being held at shivpoint. "Loot 'em." said the leader of the posse.

The little hooligans did a full-body search on each of the members, finding mostly a handful of guitar picks and a couple empty heroin needles. What interested them the most was Lemmy's collection of iron crosses.

"What's all this then?" said the leader of the gang. "Bunch of shiny medals? Where'd you find these, old man?"

Lemmy remained silent, staring the boy down with a scowl. The boy pressed his shiv up to Lemmy's throat.

"Talk." the boy snarled. "What the hell are these things and how much can I get for them?!"

Lemmy chuckled. "Not anything you'd know about and not anything a pawn shop would care to buy from ya at the moment.

The boy made a swipe at Lemmy's neck and made a small cut. At that point Lemmy could no longer maintain his composure.

"Alright ya little fockin' shit." he growled, kneeing the boy in the stomach. With the same suddenness as the Great War itself, an all-out brawl broke out in the alleyway. The members of Motorhead were all experienced bar fighters, so this wasn't their first time throwing hands. These kids may have been hardened by the streets, but they were still kids and the band was still able to overpower them eventually, though not unscathed. The boys had various small cuts from the hooligans' shivs and now looked even more unsightly to the average London upperclassman.

"Bright fuckin' idea that was, Lemmy." Eddie grumbled.

"Let's just get to a bloody clinic." said Lemmy holding his bleeding arm.

Chapter Text

"See me after class, Ian." said Mr. Evans. Lemmy grumbled. This wouldn't be his first time nor would it be his last. He was constantly getting in trouble at Ysgol Syr Thomas Jones. That's how he got his nickname. "Lemmy borrow a couple quid." he would say. It didn't take long for the nickname to catch on. He needed the money, after all. Those slot machines weren't going to play themselves. Kids would eventually get angry when he didn't pay them back. That's how he learned to fight. And sometimes, when a fight didn't go well for a kid, he would go to the teachers for revenge.

The bell rang, and Lemmy trudged over to Mr. Evans' desk as the kids pooled out for recess. Evans watched as the last boy jogged out, slapping the ceiling of the door on the way out as boys have always done.

"Good!" said Mr. Evans, shutting the door. "Now I can reveal my true form."

Lemmy watched, shocked and horrified, as Mr. Evans transformed into a three foot tall giraffe weevil donning a Vaudevillian outfit, complete with hat and cane.

"My name is Jeremy Christmas." said the weevil formerly known as Mr. Evans. "I have a message for you. I know how you can get back to your own time. You need to stop it, Lemmy. Your music is the only thing that can stop it. Keep on rocking and rolling!"

Lemmy woke up in a cold sweat. He was lying on a cot and his wounds were bandaged.

"Ah! He stirs!"

A man sat on a wooden stool across from Lemmy, watching him intently. He wore a monocle, a top hat, and a lab coat decorated with numerous dried bloodstains. Lemmy recognised him as the owner of the apothecary that he and the boys stumbled into after the altercation with the kids in the alleyway. He had given them each a dose of heroin after patching up their wounds, something Lemmy had been itching for since Ostend.

"I know you lot are penniless." said the doctor. "But when I see people in need, I am simply compelled to help them. Especially when they have something they can offer me. And you, my good sir, most certainly have something you can offer me. You sang a most peculiar song while you slumbered. I recall you made frequent use of the phrase 'Ace of Spades.' You have a voice unlike any other I have heard! I want to make a deal with you, good sir - see, I happen to dabble in the radio industry. I can get you a backing band, studio time, airplay, and your very own records! You can be a star, sir. All I ask in return is a certain cut of the profits."

Lemmy thought back to what Jeremy Christmas said. He knew it was a heroin-induced dream, but something about it told Lemmy that it was something more than that. He decided to entertain the proposition made by the doctor.

"Well, you see," Lemmy said. "Me and my mates here are a troupe of travelling musicians, and we would greatly appreciate the opportunity to get on the radio again. I mean- get on the radio. For the first time! We haven't done it before. Eddie here to my right plays guitar and and Phil to my left plays drums. Unfortunately, our instruments were stolen by the same blokes who gave us all these cuts, so if you can get us some new ones I would be forever in your debt."

"I see." said the doctor. "I'll talk to my associates at the radio station and get back to you shortly. In the meantime, get some rest, Mister...."

"Kilmister." Lemmy replied. "Lemmy Kilmister."

~~~

"That doctor gave us smack!" said Eddie. "I could get used to living in the 1910s. Slash my arm up every once in a while and get free smack. Easy as pie!"

"Well boys, I've got better news for you than free smack." Lemmy said. "Alright, maybe not quite as good as free smack. We're gonna get on the radio again. The doc has a radio station and he's gonna get us some instruments so we can record Ace of Spades."

"That's ridiculous, Lemmy!" Phil protested, "What good is that gonna do us? Didn't that Seely bloke say we needed to get to Horse Guards?"

"Well for one," Lemmy replied. "It's gonna get us some cash. Finding our way back to our time could be expensive. And anyway, as far as the British army is concerned, we don't exist. Because we don't, not yet at least. They're not going to go looking for us thinking we've deserted. We might as well get back to rocking. Beats working as a chimneysweep."

"Yeah but rock hasn't even been invented yet!" said Eddie.

"So we'll invent it." said Lemmy.

~~~

As promised, the doctor booked a date for Motorhead to record. The date chosen was January 4th, 1915 from 3PM to 5PM.

"About the name, actually." said the doctor. "I don't think the public is really going to connect with it. I'm thinking something like 'The Kilmister Trio' has a nice ring to it."

"Not happening." said Lemmy. "We're Motorhead. We've always been Motorhead and we'll always be Motorhead. The people we've performed for as Motorhead have loved us. It won't be an issue."

"Yes, yes," said the doctor. "But think of the radio audience. The people buying your records! Think of-"

Lemmy grabbed the doctor by his collar.

"If I hear one more peep out of your fucking gob about changing our name, you're gonna be patching up your own wounds."

"Understood." said the doctor, his tone and expression betraying a mix of fear and resignation.

When they got to the studio, the band made the horrifying realisation that electric instruments hadn't been invented yet. This didn't pose much of a problem for Eddie, who had played an acoustic guitar before, but for Lemmy this was a challenge. His only option was to play an upright bass, the likes of which he had never even laid eyes on. He was able to adjust to the playing position fairly quickly, and managed to figure out that it was tuned the same as an electric bass, but he struggled with the fretting. He had been used to his fretted electric bass, but playing a fretless instrument was a challenge. Lemmy tried to play the right notes, but they kept coming out slightly flat or slightly sharp. Clemmons, the man in charge of recording with the wax cylindre, was getting impatient.

"Can't you play that blasted thing?" Clemmons asked impatiently. "We're on the clock here! Stop fooling about!"

"Uhh, yeah..." said Lemmy, "It's just uh... a different model than what I'm used to."

"Can someone get me a hi-hat?" Phil asked.

"A high what?" Clemmons replied, confused.

"A hi-hat!" Phil exclaimed. "You know-" He imitated the action of playing a hi-hat.

"Is he possessed?" Clemmons asked Lemmy. "Should I call an exorcist?"

"No!" said Lemmy, annoyed. "He's not possessed, he just wants his fucking hi-hat!"

"Are you people deliberately wasting my time?!" Clemmons said.

"Guys, c'mere for a minute." said Eddie. Lemmy and Phil made their way to Eddie's corner of the room.

"I don't think hi-hats are a thing yet, mates." Eddie whispered.

"Fucking 'ell." Phil mumbled. "Gonna have to do everything on the ride."

After the first few hurdles, the recording session went fairly smoothly. By the end of the month, the Ace of Spades record had been distributed to every shop in London. It sounded rather strange to the members of Motorhead on account of the acoustic guitar and upright bass, but it still rocked. And the public agreed. Within the first month of sales, Ace of Spades had already sold 20,000 records. By April it had sold 100,000. Newspapers called it "Motorhead Madness" and numerous copycat bands were popping up and trying to cash in on the craze. Motorhead was booking show dates in London, Birmingham, Southampton, Manchester. They even got a show in Paris. Despite wartime efforts, the entire Allied Forces were obsessed with Motorhead.

~~~

Chapter Text

On a cold February morning in 1916, crowds gathered around as Motorhead prepared to embark on the ship that would take them to the village of Charny-Sur-Meuse, where their next concert was scheduled.

By now, the band had released 3 further singles:: Bomber, Overkill, and No Class. All of these were of course acoustic renditions of the songs from the 1970s, and they were all hits in the Allied nations, even in colonies such as Canada and Hong Kong.

As Motorhead sailed through the Strait of Dover, pictures of them waving to the enormous crowd were published in newspapers, with the headline “MOTORHEAD TO PERFORM IN FRENCH VILLAGE.” After reaching shore in Calais and taking a motor vehicle to the village, the members of Motorhead checked into their hotel on the 20th of February, 1916, where they rehearsed and slept in preparation for their show the following day.

After a healthy amount of day-drinking at the hotel bar, the band made their way to the church down the street. Curious villagers watched the three men from their windows.

“French bourbon is fuckin’ good shit, innit?” said Eddie.

“Too right.” said Phil.

Lemmy remained uncharacteristically quiet, as a sense of dread overtook him. He felt it in the chirp of every bird, and in every gust of wind. He saw it in the grey skies which spilled the occasional droplet; the last remnants of a storm. He tried to ignore the feeling.

A stage had been set up in front of the church. The musicians climbed on and started setting up their instruments as people started trickling into the audience. As the minutes turned into an hour, the crowd got bigger and bigger, until eventually they blocked the whole street. People were coming in from Reims, Châlons-En-Champagne, and more. It got to the point where people were trapped inside their homes because they couldn’t open the door without it hitting at least three different people. The crowd in Charny rivalled those of Motorhead’s shows in London and Paris. Some of the audience members had made the pilgrimage on countryside footpaths.

The band opened with No Class, their most recent single. From there, they dove into some tunes that were unreleased to the WW1-era public - songs from Ace of Spades and On Parole. They even played some songs from Iron Fist, which hadn’t even been released in their time. They were feeling cocky.

Midway through Love Me Like A Reptile, one of the concert organisers rushed on stage and whispered into Lemmy’s ear.

“Germans are storming Fort Douaumont. Won’t be long before they get here. We need to evacuate.”

Suddenly, Lemmy realised why he had been so filled with dread since he arrived in the village. Today was the beginning of the Battle of Verdun. Once again, he remembered what Jeremy Christmas said. “Your music is the only thing that can stop it. Keep on rocking and rolling!” Filled with sudden determination, Lemmy smiled at the concert organiser.

“Let ‘em come.” he growled devilishly. He kept playing as the concert organiser jogged off stage.

The band finished their set with Overkill, but the crowd chanted for an encore, just as the band expected. They had to play the song that everyone wanted to hear. The song that had propelled them to stardom for the second, first time. They began playing Ace of Spades just as the German cavalry advanced into Charny-Sur-Meuse. Confused by the music and lack of civilian panic, the Germans halted their steeds and observed what was going on over at the stage. After listening for a moment, the German commander decided that the music was, as they say in German, “hella good”, and ordered his troops to stand down and join the crowd.

Mirroring the football games of the Christmas Truce, the Germans were welcomed into the concert with open arms, as Motorhead played Ace of Spades five times in a row, an event that later inspired Kendrick Lamar to do something similar with his seminal diss track Not Like Us.

Most of the crowd began their journey back to their hometowns after the concert, but a few of them stayed along with the German troops to drink beer with the members of Motorhead at the local tavern. Good time was had by all, and by the wee hours of the morning, everyone was pooped.

The sound of three bodies falling onto their cots was heard, followed by a silence in the hotel room which was broken shortly thereafter by Lemmy.

“D’y’know what we just did there, lads?” he asked.

“Played a rippin’ fuckin’ concert?” Phil replied.

“We just prevented the Battle of Verdun.” Lemmy said, a grin plastered across his face.

“Sounds important.” said Eddie.

“Longest battle of the Great War.” said Lemmy. He had gotten used to calling it that since the term ‘World War 1’ didn’t make sense to people yet.

The band was chauffeured back to Calais the following morning, and soon thereafter arrived back in England. Just days later, Eddie picked up a paper on the way to the pub with the lads and saw a rather surprising headline: “PEACE TALKS UNDER WAY IN VERDUN.”

Chapter Text

An armistice was declared on February 28th, 1916, with the Treaty of Verdun being signed just three weeks later on March 23rd. The Great War had come to an end. To celebrate the treaty, Motorhead played a concert in London on March 25th, but that evening something rather strange occurred. When Lemmy, Eddie, and Phil finally hit the sack, each of them were met with a flash of white light.

The boys woke up in a room. A rubber room. A rubber room with a certain giraffe weevil.

“Phil, Eddie.” said the weevil. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Jeremy Christmas, a friend of Lemmy’s. When that electric shock sent you back to 1914, I knew there was potential there. You see, the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand was never supposed to happen. Through some quantum error, the Archduke’s driver managed to make a turn he was never supposed to make, bringing him right to his assassin. Ideally, I would’ve had you boys prevent the assassination entirely, but I had to make do with what I got.

Now that you boys have served your purpose in the Great War, it is time for me to send you back to your own time. I must warn you though, your actions here have greatly changed the course of history. The world you will come back to won’t be the world you’re used to. It’s a damn shame about the Beatles, really. I liked them in the old timeline. It’s called ‘March Hall’ by the way. Less catchy than ‘rock and roll’ I guess, but it’s worth the millions of lives that were saved. That’s really the main point when it comes to all this. The Second World War was never supposed to happen, and thanks to you boys, it hasn’t! I’m sure you won’t mind losing your paraphernalia, Lemmy. There’s a bunch of political stuff that’s happened. Germany and Russia are constitutional monarchies, but I would imagine not having to worry about Maggie is something you’d be more interested in. The current PM is John Pertwee.

Ultimately, the thing that’ll change the most for you boys is music. You won’t be able to go back to being Motorhead. The members of Motorhead vanished on March 25th, 1916, and are presumed dead. I’ve assigned you new identities. Ian King, Eddie Campbell, and Phil Thompson. You’re all welcome to get back into music, but not with each other and not as Motorhead. You will all have to adapt. Good luck.”

And just like that, the men who were once known as the members of Motorhead found themselves in front of what they recognised as Morgan Studios, in the year 1982. When they went in, they found that it was all flats.