Ugh, I can't believe I'm starting ANOTHER one. And you know this is going to be the only story I'm going to write about. But, I've had this here for a while, and I want to be Superwoman and do impossible things, so I guess I am. I know exactly what's going to happen in this story, by the way, but am not sure of one thing. I'm holding a poll on my profile about which Beatles she's going to fall in love with (you people don't know her name yet) because they're all so charming you know she's going to. So vote on that one, but don't base it too heavily on what you see here, because (SPOILER ALERT!!!!) there's something that George is not saying right yet. I want you to vote on what you think the character would be good with, and what you personally would like to see. And if you really want John…well…I don't think that I make it any big secret that I don't really like him. But, I am, of course, considering him. So, this is chapter one, and don't judge it too harshly, because I'll probably go back and change some things. Here we go!

I sat in my bed, my covers huddled around me, and my laptop resting on my knees. The website I was on asked me what song I wanted to listen to next, so I chose my favorite: In My Life. As I listened to the song, I thought of the man who wrote it. From what I gathered about him, John Lennon was a unique person, not quite caring what other people thought and doing his own thing. I had seen all the Beatles movies a thousand times, and I had always thought he came off as quite the asshole. But, when I listened to his music, he seemed to be a different person. I sighed, tracing the picture of his face with the very tip of my index finger, and thought that no matter what kind of person he was, he didn't deserve to come to the end that he did. No one did.

I glanced over at the clock on my nightstand, its digital glow easy to read in the darkness that currently shrouded me. 11: 16. Exhaustion tugged at my eyes, forcing me to snap my laptop shut midsong and slide it onto the ground next to my bed. I leaned back, and for some odd reason, I felt almost too sad to go to sleep just yet. I closed my eyes, but all I could see were the old newspaper articles that I had seen on the Internet. Their headlines differed, but I had divided them in my head into two piles. The first, the shooting of John Lennon. I hadn't been alive for that one, that being in 1980. The second pile was of the death of George Harrison, the lesser known, quiet Beatle. I found his death almost as sad as John's, maybe even more, seeing as he was probably my favorite of them all. I had been nine in 2001, and I remember my mom standing in the middle of the living room, her hands on her hips, and her eyes glued to the T.V. Her hand slowly started moving up towards her mouth, and she stayed like that, tears glistening in her eyes, until the newscast was over. When I asked her what had happened, she just told me that someone very extraordinary had died. Thinking back on it now, I think she must have been a little melodramatic. It wasn't like she had known him personally, was it?

I rolled over onto my side, hoping that I might fall asleep more easily like this. Eventually, I must have drifted into a light sleep. I had wild dreams of walruses chasing me down street after street, all of them called Penny Lane. I tossed and turned, eventually ending up with my face totally off the pillow, lying on my arm, my head dangerously close to the open side of my bed. It was only when I heard their whispering did I wake up.

"Shh, you'll wake her! We don't want to scare her!" My eyes shot open. I had never been a heavy sleeper, so it was no wonder that even the tiniest of voices had jolted me out of my dream. Everything was silent for a moment as my eyes adjusted to the darkness. Then I saw them.

By 'them' I mean the pair of big, round, hazel eyes that were peeking just above the horizon of my bed. Being the fan-girl that I was, I recognized them instantly. Which was strange, seeing as I SHOULDN'T have recognized them, not here, right in front of my face, when the man they belonged to was thousands of miles away. That was I screamed.

Paul McCartney quickly leapt to his feet and clapped his hand over my mouth. "Quiet!" he hissed at me, then turned to someone kneeling behind him. "This bird has quite the set of pipes, eh?"

I strained to see who was on the floor, but I couldn't see, as it was so dark in the room that I could barely see Paul's face anymore. It took me a moment to realize why this was; they had shut my bedroom door. The two men began a heated discussion, Paul's hand still locked in place, regarding me temporarily speechless.

"Well, what are we supposed to do now?" Other Guy asked in a deep, Liverpoolian accent. "We can't just steal her away!"

Paul twitched his mouth impatiently. "C'mon, Georgie! We can't just leave now! Imagine if she tells anybody about what happened, they'll throw her in the loony bin for God's sake!" Georgie? So Other Guy was George Harrison? My heart sped up, and I tried again to get a better look.

I heard George stand up, and in the sliver of light coming from the gash in my window shade, I saw him for the first time. He was thin, will a pallid face and hallowed cheeks. His thick eyebrows were knitted together in anxiety, and his mop top of hair fell into his dark eyes. He was everything I had seen in pictures, yet so different. What struck me the most was how young he looked. He seemed to be about my age, and I always pictured him much older.

"Aye, that she will. So we take her then?" He suddenly looked down at me, and I wasn't sure what exactly he saw, but his face clouded over. I wanted to ask him what was the matter, but Paul still had his hand over my mouth.

I reached up and tried to pry his hand off, but he just looked down at me, smirking a bit. "She's a feisty one," he announced, then leaned down to look me more in the eyes. "Don't worry, love, we'll explain this all once we're home free." I desperately wanted to ask him what this meant, but my obstacle was still in place.

By now, I was thoroughly convinced that I was still dreaming. I mean, this was impossible, right? Paul McCartney was over sixty five years old, yet here he was, his young, unwithered hand on my lips. And George Harrison…God, he was dead! He had died of lung cancer when I was nine years old! What the hell was he doing here, looking no more than eighteen?

George glanced out the window, letting some light filter into the room again, and then looked back to Paul. "It's now or never, Paulie."

Paul looked down at me once again, his smirk now gone, replaced by a more serious expression. "Alright, I'm gonna take my hand off on the count of three, but only if you promise not to scream." I nodded, and he began to count down. "One…two…three!" He pulled his palm off, jumping back as though I was an exploding bomb. I sat up wearily in bed, rubbing my eyes.

"I'm not gonna scream, dumbass." I was NOT one to be woken up in the middle of the night. Wait, what time was it? I glanced over at the clock, and it read 12: 04. They must have woken me up around midnight then. Punctual, these Beatles were.

George chuckled. "This one's got a mouth, doesn't she?" He held out his hand to me, and I ignored it, stumbling out of bed on my own. This was a dream, after all, wasn't it? Why shouldn't I go along with it?

Paul caught me before I fell, having tripped on my forgotten laptop, and put me on my feet again. He took a step back and considered me. "You're a mess," he decided. Oh, that was great, just what every girl dreamed to be called by one of the cutest boys that ever lived. And, okay, so I wasn't looking my best, but I had just woken up! What did he expect?

"Shut up," I replied, shaking out my slightly damp curls. I had taken a shower before bed, and I was sure they would be a hot mess right now. I pulled them back into a ponytail, securing them with a ponytail holder, and smoothed my hands over my tank-top. I thanked God I had been too lazy to take off my bra before bed tonight.

"Okay, let's get moving," George said from behind me, putting a hand on my back and pushing me out the door that Paul was holding open.

"Where are you taking me?" I hissed as we passed my parent's bedroom, where I could hear my dad snoring. I shivered slightly, berating myself for not having worn something more season-appropriate to bed. If they were taking me outside, I swear to God….

Wait, if I could feel cold then…no, this was most definitely a dream. I mean, everything that was happening was not possible. Maybe it was just a little bit cold in my bed right now. I tried to tell my conscious self to pull up her blankets, but all I got back from my mind was a mental 'WTF?'.

George continued to guide me along the hallway, down the stairs, and into the kitchen. There, the lights were all on, and then I realized that was our destination. I could hear muffled laughter, and upon our arrival, Paul turned around and told us to wait. He sauntered into the kitchen, where we could hear him talking to other people. I noticed that George still had his hand on the small of my back, though we were no longer walking.

"Listen, lads, she's not what we're used to, okay? Just…just try not to make her too uncomfortable." He stuck his hand out the door, signaling for us to come in. This time, before George could restart his pushing, I walked ahead of him.

As soon as I walked in, all noise stopped. I swear to God, you could hear a pin drop. George scampered in, taking his place next to Paul. It was then that I realized they were all here. John Lennon was sitting on the counter top, his legs dangling over, and Ringo Starr was leaning against the stove, dangerously close to switching it on and lighting himself on fire.

I saw John's beady eyes travel all the way up from my bare feet to the tops of my shoulders. His mouth trembled, as though he were holding back a smile. I couldn't help but notice that he wasn't wearing glasses. That must mean that they were from sometime before 1966.

And it was John, in fact, that broke the silence. "They sent us here for a bloody bint!" he exclaimed, reaching over smacking Ringo's chest with his hand, pointing at me. Ringo sniggered into his hand.

I blushed furiously, not even sure what the hell a 'bint' was, but positive that it was nothing good. My fears were confirmed when Paul pointed at John sternly and said, "Hey, now. That's a lady you're talking to. She's just been sleeping, after all."

George nodded when John didn't look convinced. "It's true. I reckon that there's a lot of people in this time that sleep in their skivvies."

My flush only deepened. They thought I was walking around in my UNDERWEAR???!!! Oh, God, that was so embarrassing. I looked down at myself. A tank top and shorts was a perfectly acceptable thing to wear to bed! Okay, maybe the shorts were a little bit shorter than the usual, but come on! I didn't expect anyone to see me in them, I was supposed to be sleeping right now!

"Excuse me," I spoke up, and they all turned to look at me. "Actually, these are called 'pajamas' and they are what normal people wear to bed in the summertime." I gave them all my most defiant expression, but John just laughed again.

He gestured out the window, where newly fallen snow was falling. "Oh, I'm sorry. Is this what summer looks like in Chicago? You'll have to forgive me, I've never been." He smiled that stupid, cocky smile again, and I could feel the frustration building up inside of me.

"No, I was just hot before I-"

"Ohh, she was feeling hot!" John exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air daintily and putting on a fake falsetto voice. "Somebody call the fire department! Crack a window…something! But seriously, love, don't you think it's a little early to be going through the change. You must have, I don't know, a year or two left before that, huh?"

George and Paul, who had stood up for me before, were smirking right along with the other two now. Great, I had lost my only allies. I decided that I wouldn't play nice with him anymore, but use what I knew about his life already. After all, he was the one invading MY time period.

I took a menacing step forward. "That's hilarious! I'm sure Cynthia would really appreciate you making fun of women." That made the smile slip right off of his face. He glared down at me, and I could feel the stares of the other three two.

"How do you know about that?" he asked in a deadly voice. His already squinty eyes were narrowed beyond seeing point, and his knuckles were turning white, he was clutching the counter top so hard.

I shrugged. "You can't forget, John, that this isn't the sixties anymore. A lot has happened since then." John's frown deepened, and he leaned away from me.

"How do you know his name?" Ringo asked me. I turned to him. He looked a little bit scared, but he held his ground. I had always liked Ringo Starr; out of all of them he made me laugh the most. I decided I would be nice to him.

"Oh, a lot of stuff has happened to John Lennon since your time." These words had come out slightly cold, and everybody in the room shivered a bit. Hell, they probably thought I was some kind of obsessed-stalker girl.

It was quiet in the room, and I knew that all four of them were wondering exactly what I was talking about, though none of them wanted to say it. Finally, John spoke again.

"What…what happened?" Was it my imagination, or did the Great John Lennon sound a little bit…scared? I turned around to look at him, my eyes narrowed and my hip cocked. I raised an eyebrow at him.

"What do you think?" I watched as the effect of these words sunk in. His face completely fell, and for a minute, I almost felt bad for him. Almost.

"So I'm dead then." It wasn't a question, more like a fact that he didn't want to know.

"No shit, Sherlock." I rolled my eyes, turning back to the other three Beatles. Okay, I was being a little bit irrationally mean. But he called me a bint! Whatever the hell that means. Paul's eyes widened so that they were (what I thought must be impossible) bigger than usual. George shook his head, looking down, but Ringo looked curious still.

"So we became pretty good, then?" He watched me with his clear blue eyes. I had never noticed that he had such pretty eyes, I had been so focused on the other boys.

He really didn't know this? I wondered what time period they were from, guessing from about 1961-1964. Those were the years they were just forming and just releasing their first album. It was actually kind of funny. Here in front of me was the greatest group in the history of music, and they didn't even realize just how big they were going to get.

"Yeah," I mumbled, suddenly ashamed that I had been such a…well, bitch to John. After all, he was one of my favorite people in all of history. They didn't have any idea what things were like now.

Paul looked up at me suddenly. "So what ever happened to us, or don't you know?" He looked honestly curious, and it made me laugh.

"Oh, everybody knows." I sat down on one of the chairs at the kitchen table, figuring that this was probably going to take a while.

"Everybody?" George breathed, smiling like this was the best thing he had heard since Beethoven. I grinned a little bit, welcoming the fact that I was their wealth of knowledge. But then something occurred to me.

"You know what?" All four of them looked at me, noting my sudden change of tone. "I don't think I should be telling you this."

George, Paul, and Ringo frowned, but John just slid off the counter, striding over to the calendar. It looked like he got a little bit of his old self back. He studied it while the others began bombing me with whys.

"Aw, come on. We won't tell anyone!" That one was Ringo.

"Well you've already told us this much, you might as well…." George.

"I can make it worth your while." Plus a wink. Definitely Paul.

"It's December 7th, 2010!" That was from John. I leaned back, and John was looking at me with a shocked expression. "2010!"

"Actually, it's December 8th," I corrected him automatically, looking at the time. It was almost one. Then my heart stopped in realization at what that meant. "And you should be looking at the day, not the year, John Lennon."

John frowned, stepping back to look at the calendar again, like it might give him some sort of answer. When he didn't see anything, he asked, "Why?"

I bit my lip hesitantly. I had just told the others that I wouldn't tell them any more futuristic facts. I was worried that it might go to their heads, and then some of the wonderful things they did in the past would never happen. But this was a bit different. I mean, just tonight I had wished that someone could go back and warn John, just tell him to avoid this day. I had figured this would be impossible, but now….

"Let's just say that December 8, 1980 is NOT a very good day for you." That was all I was going to say, but he put on a puppy dog face and pressed me.

"Please tell me! You can't just say something like that and expect me not to say anything."

He also got encouragement from his band mates. "I don't even think John would do something like that to someone."

"Be a sweetheart, go ahead."

"I can make it worth your while."

John smiled at them, and I rolled my eyes. "Fine. But don't say that I didn't try to stop it." He nodded, gazing at me intently.

When I hesitated for a moment, he opened his mouth to say something. I quickly held up my palm to him, signaling for him to stop. "Okay! If you must know…."

I really didn't want to be the one to tell him this. I could be mean, but I wasn't a total bitch. I grimaced, looking at the ground.

"I swear to God, if you don't tell me…" he took a threatening step forward.

I threw my hands up in surrender. "Okay, okay. December 8, 1980 is-"

"You know, what? If it's all that bad, maybe I don't want to know."

"-is the day you died."

Oops! Okay, what do you guys think? I mean, I know that it's a little rough around the edges, but give it a chance, it'll get better. Review, pretty please, and don't forget to vote on my poll! I'm really excited for this one, so don't ruin it by all voting for John. And that means you!