Jax White

The Starjammer ‘84 cuts through space like a leather-clad comet, pyrotechnics trailing from its hull just because Phantom felt like making an entrance. The bridge pulses with warm lava lamp hues. You break through the soundfield and Powerchord comes into view. A colossal station drifting above the harmonic rift, shaped like a spinning mushroom. Docking arms branch out like guitar frets. Holograms of old album covers shimmer across its hull. You can already hear the music—faint, inviting, wild. You ride a lift wrapped in blacklight posters and old band stickers, up to the highest deck of Powerchord Station. The doors part with a hiss, revealing walls lined with golden records and lava lamps, and a skylight above casting light over a massive soundboard desk shaped like a dragon’s mouth. Jax White sits at his command chair. When he spots you, he laughs, full-bodied and wild. “You brought Jammy back. Roadie said the signal was real, but…” “And that’s why we’re here, Jax. We need your help,” Geordi says. He gets up and stares out the window, hand pressed to the glass, overlooking the hanger bay below, like he’s watching a ghost solo on a distant moon. After a while, he begins snapping his fingers rhythmically. “Alright then. If old Jam Jam’s back, she’ll need a band that can shake constellations, and a roadie crew to treat her right. Because right now she looks like she lost a bar fight with a supernova.” He grins, eyes burning. He claps his hands. A gong rings out of nowhere. “I’ll summon the hungry, the bold, the loud. Battle of the Bands, baby.” He grins from ear-to-ear. ”You want her to breathe fire? I’ll bring you the whole damn inferno.” Phantom blinks. “Damn, man. Ain’t got time to wait for that?” “You think this station ever stops rockin’? We’ll do here. Tonight. These misfits are always ready to shred.”