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Fishing the Multiverse

mysteriousgasmstr
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Synopsis
Jonas has been stranded on a dead alien world for years. No rescue. No signals. Just a strange fishing rod that casts into a glowing "pond" — a one-way portal that pulls in bizarre tech from across the multiverse. He’s caught a butter-passing robot that won’t shut up, a Kryptonian baby rocket he’s too old to use, a pizza coupon that expired three million years ago… and a pile of junk that would make a hoarder blush. Nothing useful. Nothing that could get him off-world. Until now. A tiny brass key. A dusty old bag labeled "Hogwarts." Inside the bag: an impossible space. A derelict TARDIS full of forgotten relics — and bodies. One of them wears a Hogwarts skirt. One clutches a Time Turner. Her name was Hermione Granger. And her ghost has a message: “Put it in the Eye... but only when you're ready to leave.” Now, Jonas must rebuild a half-dead multiversal starship using garbage, fan relics, and fragments of lost timelines. But when he activates the Eye of Harmony, something ancient sees him — something that waits between realities. Because some things should stay lost. And some tech... was never meant to be found.
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Chapter 1 - The Fisher

The pond wasn't real. Not in the traditional sense. No fish, no algae, no bottom.

Just a shimmering oval of water that appeared in the dirt every time Jonas planted his rod and flicked the reel.

He'd been fishing there for five years. Or maybe twenty. Time was unreliable in this world. He still looked like he was around twenty, although he was much older. There were two suns, a sky like bruised fruit, and a moon that occasionally whispered in languages he almost understood.

Jonas sat on a jagged rock, the fishing rod propped between his legs. It looked like a normal pole, except for the line: it shimmered like stretched glass, and vibrated with tension even when nothing tugged on it.

The pond rippled, then bulged. Jonas leaned forward.

Something was coming.

The water convulsed, spat, and a metallic object shot out, skidding across the red dust like a skipping stone.

Jonas waited. Some things exploded on impact. Others screamed. A few begged to be put back.

This one just sat there, humming softly.

He stood, bug boots crunching on cracked clay, and approached it. Cylindrical. Shiny. About the size of a thermos. Etched with alien script that pulsed in rhythmic color.

He nudged it with his boot.

It chirped. A thin panel slid open and projected a 3D image: a loaf of bread turning into a fist, punching a cartoon sun.

Jonas frowned. "Translation error or art?"

The device chirped again, then unfolded into a four-legged walker and began strutting in a circle, letting out tiny trumpet blasts with each step.

Jonas sighed. "Useless."

He kicked the thing gently toward the junk pile — a sprawling metal graveyard of failed hope and broken potential. A rusting monument to years of disappointment.

Still, he was alive. The rod caught a replicator that he used for food. It was his favorite working device. Sometimes when he was bored, he would select food from alien species. The Klingon food was usually horrible, having lots of blood and raw flesh. Vulcan food was typically bland unless it was Southern Torvek Region foods, which were really spicy. He loved those dishes.

He tried his hand at programming his own dishes. The most successful creation was a health drink that tasted like his favorite sugary soda. No sugar, no preservatives, but a nourishing liquid that not only hydrated him but kept his energy up.

He had a tent that assembled itself every evening at sunset and disassembled itself just before sunrise. He had a music box that only played music he'd never heard of.

But he didn't have a ship. Or a signal beacon that worked. Or a teleporter, wormhole device, jumpgate passkey, or even a decent map.

He was all alone. Every so often, he would start to go crazy, but for some reason, the music box helped.

He turned back to the pond.

The surface was smooth again, glassy, endless. When you looked into it too long, you started to see places — cities, jungles, rooms full of flickering lights and cold air. Once, he swore he saw his childhood bedroom.

But when he reached toward it, the image vanished, and he was left with the reflection of a young man with permanent stubble and eyes that never blinked quite fast enough.

Jonas cast the line again.

It disappeared into the water with a faint plink and a swirl of impossible colors.

He waited. He'd gotten good at that.

After a while, he felt the line go taut. A deep, pulsing tug, like the world on the other end didn't want to give up its prize.

Jonas grinned.

"That's new."

He cranked the reel. The line screamed under tension. The pond bucked, and something vast and silver breached the surface like a mechanical whale.

It crashed to the ground, trailing steam and cosmic frost. Jonas backed up, mouth slightly open.

It was a pod. Sleek, egg-shaped, alien in design but familiar somehow.

Etched on the side, in precise, serifed alien glyphs, was a symbol he'd seen in old Earth comic books.

Superman's "S."

Jonas laughed. Actually laughed.

He ran a hand over its surface. Smooth. Cold. Kryptonian?

The hatch was sealed with a biometric lock. He tried placing his hand on it. Nothing. He tried his face. Still nothing.

Then a high-pitched voice echoed from the pod:

"Infant not detected. Launch protocol disabled. Please insert authorized infant."

Jonas blinked. "What?"

The pod repeated, slightly more annoyed:

"Infant not detected. Please insert the authorized infant. This rocket is intended for use by Kryptonian babies only."

Jonas backed away, muttering. "Of course. Of course, I fish out Superman's escape rocket, and it won't even turn on unless I'm wearing diapers."

He dropped to the dirt beside it and stared at the sky.

Something fluttered beside him. The walker-bread-puncher had followed him and was now moonwalking.

Jonas sighed. Then he smiled.

He stood, dusted himself off, and cast the line again.

The pond shimmered.

Jonas froze mid-cast, the line twitching in his hand. The water wasn't calm this time — it bubbled like it was boiling from underneath, casting ripples across the clearing.

He lowered the rod slowly. "Okay… not ominous at all."

The gurgling stopped.

A single object popped out and landed with a soft plop on the cracked earth.

It was… a key.

No, not just a key, a tiny brass key, like something you'd use to wind up an old music box. It gleamed unnaturally in the twin suns, untouched by dust or time.

Jonas walked over cautiously. He'd seen worse — slime grenades, interdimensional spores, a hamster-powered gravity core that took two years to die.

The key just sat there.

He bent down and picked it up.

Nothing happened.

It was warm. Smooth. Ridiculously ordinary.

He turned it over in his palm. No markings, no inscription. He tried placing it against his tent's control panel. Nothing. The Superman pod? No reaction.

He brought it to the self-playing music box.

As soon as the key got close, the music stopped. The box shuddered, snapped open like a bear trap, and ejected a glittering stream of tiny brass gears, followed by a shriek that sounded like a theremin having a breakdown.

Jonas yelped and threw the key.

The moment it left his hand, the pond rippled again — as if it had been watching.

Jonas slowly retrieved the key, eyes flicking between the pond and the junk pile. The pond settled. The key was quiet again.

"Okay," he muttered. "That's different."

He pocketed the key.

That night, the stars were wrong.

Not in the usual way. The constellations he'd named after old cereal brands — Captain Crunch, Frosted Nebula were gone. In their place: a wide arc of shifting purple mist, pulsing like a heartbeat.

Jonas sat outside his tent, the fishing rod beside him, the key resting on his palm.

It was vibrating.

Very faintly.

And in the distance, far beyond the junk pile, past the valley of broken things, a light blinked.

It had never blinked before.

Not once in all the years he'd been stuck here.

Jonas stood, suddenly alert.

He stared at the key. It didn't speak. It didn't hum. But it vibrated just enough to make his fingers itch.

The key pulsed again in Jonas's hand.

He turned slowly to the battered old bag sitting near the tent — the one he'd nearly thrown away half a dozen times. It had Hogwarts embroidered on the flap in gold thread, faded with time and dust. A cheap novelty, he'd assumed.

He crouched beside it.

The lock glinted: brass, tiny, almost ornamental.

The key fits perfectly.

Jonas hesitated.

Then he turned it.

The bag didn't open.

It expanded.

With a loud hiss of vacuum release, the seams split wide and folded inward like fabric being swallowed by the void. A gust of warm air burst out, scented like old paper and ozone.

Jonas was pulled forward, stumbled, and then fell.

He landed on metal.

It groaned under him like a living thing.

Dim lights flickered above, gradually humming to life. The walls glowed coral-pink and amber. The air smelled like copper, and something far more sour.

Jonas sat up.

He was inside… a TARDIS. Or something very much like one.

The control room was massive, octagonal, and filled with junk tech from every conceivable origin. A hundred different alien circuits were tangled into the walls. He spotted a Meeseeks Box, a broken Stillsuit, a box labeled "Temporal Crystals — Fragile," and what looked suspiciously like a lightsaber hilt glued to a plunger.

He blinked at the mess — it looked exactly like his own junk pile.

Then he saw the bodies.

Three skeletons slumped around the main console. All wore charred Hogwarts robes. One wore a long skirt and clutched a brown leather satchel to her chest. The air grew colder the closer he came.

He knelt and gently turned her over.

A delicate gold object dangled from her wrist.

A Time Turner.

Suddenly, he heard it: a girl's voice, soft and sad.

"Put it in the Eye… of harmony…"

Jonas spun around.

A shimmering figure stood behind him — a teenage girl with bushy hair and a tired smile. She looked translucent, like a half-formed thought. Hermione Granger, unmistakable.

"But only put it in when you're ready to leave."

And then she was gone.

Not vanished — released.

The air around Jonas grew still.

He looked down at the Time Turner. It was whole. It was humming.

Whatever this TARDIS was… it could move. If he could find the Eye of Harmony.

Jonas muttered, "So that's what the bag was."

He grinned, despite himself.

Then, without waiting, he bolted out of the chamber, back through the bag, and into the alien world.

He had years of junk to pack.

And maybe just maybe some of it wasn't junk and had a use after all.

Jonas stood in the middle of the TARDIS control room — or whatever alternate-universe version of it this was — surrounded by bins of multiversal junk. He'd hauled in as much of his hoard as he could, dragging crates, bins, and alien luggage through the still-pulsing Hogwarts bag. The bag was now propped open at the base of the console platform like a lazy mouth, too large for its seams.

He turned slowly, taking it all in.

A Meeseeks Box blinked lazily on a shelf.A rusted Omni Tool refused to retract.A shrinking ray buzzed ominously, wedged under a pile of defunct alien batteries.There was even a claymore mine with a sticky note on it that just said, "Do not lick."

"Okay," Jonas muttered. "Time to stop hoarding and start fixing."

It's not like Jonas never tried to fix some of the junk or make it useful. There were several examples of his projects.

The problem he faced was, he wasn't a genius. He also didn't have much in the way of tools. Still, he managed to cobble a few things together. He was rather proud of those. 

The TARDIS still had power, but it wasn't flowing right. The control console would flicker briefly when he approached, like it was waking from a coma. The floor panels trembled occasionally, like the ship was trying to remember how to breathe.

The Eye of Harmony had to be here somewhere.

But so far, there was no clue where to find it — just that Hermione's ghost said to "put it in the Eye." That had to mean the Time Turner. But where was the Eye? It wasn't near the console. Jonas had tried opening all the panels, even crawling under the floor. Nothing.

So now he stood in the center of the room, clutching a universal compass he'd fished up three years ago — it had never worked. Until now.

Its needle spun, paused, then pointed not north, but down.

Jonas blinked. "Of course."

The TARDIS had levels.

He sprinted for the hallway branching off the main platform. The door creaked open at his approach, revealing a massive corridor lined with doors. Each door bore a nameplate: Hydroponics, Temporal Laundry, Hermione's Bedroom (No Boys), and one that simply read: Don't.

Jonas hesitated at the last one.

Then kept moving.

The compass guided him further, deeper. The TARDIS seemed to rearrange its corridors as he walked — walls shifted, stairs curved down where none had been before. He passed a glowing room full of snow, another that seemed to contain only bees suspended in amber, and in another a winking robothead with a strange smile.

Finally, the compass needle spun in a circle and stopped cold. He'd arrived.

The door in front of him had no label. Just a faint symbol etched in the metal — a stylized eye, ringed with orbiting glyphs.

His pulse quickened.

He pushed the door open.

The room beyond was dim, cathedral-like, with a central pedestal rising from a circular pit. Machines clung to the walls like vines, humming softly in rhythm with his heartbeat. Floating above the pedestal, spinning slowly, was a spherical cavity — empty, waiting.

Jonas stepped forward. "Is this it?"

A whisper filled the air, like a breath drawn across a long pipe.

"The Eye... must be found... in fragments."

He turned sharply. No one. Just the ship. Speaking?

A flickering hologram burst to life behind the pedestal — a grainy recording of Hermione. Her voice was firm.

"If you're seeing this, I didn't make it. The Eye of Harmony is broken — or never whole to begin with. My friends and I found the fishing rod in the Department of Mysteries while fighting Voldemort's Death Eaters.

Harry grabbed three Time Turners, I don't know why.

It turned out to be fortuitous. Every TARDIS needs a temporal energy source to work. I have the last Time Turner.

We were running from the Death Eaters, the fishing pole's hook and line shot forward and created a portal. We found ourselves on a desolate planet filled with junk from across the stars and numerous universes. 

Somehow, the fishing pole froze our ages as teenagers. We spent centuries finding and learning how to make use of the Muggle technology. Harry and Ron were the brawn, while I was, of course, the brains.

When we were ready to test our TARDIS, the rod disappeared mysteriously. I don't know where it went. I had hoped it had gone to find help for us. 

As I am recording this message, we are about to test our TARDIS."

The hologram transformed into a dying Hermione. Harry and Ron sat in their chairs, their bodies and clothing partially cooked. Half of Hermione's face was covered in burns, but she looked like she had healed a little. What came next, however, made it clear she was leaving her last words.

"We had a malfunction. I know the problem now. If you want to use the Time Turner, you must assemble a new Time Turner insert chamber. The ship won't move without the chamber; the computer has the instructions."

She looked toward her companions, suddenly vulnerable. "I hope you're not alone."

The image cut out.

Jonas stared at the pedestal. Empty socket. He found the instructions on the computer as she said, but the parts, those he would need to find himself.

And that was how he found himself returning to the junk room for the first time in years, not to dig blindly, but with a purpose.

He opens a rusted alien box and finds a glowing crystal too polished to be natural. It pulses the moment he touches it.

He pries open the broken Babel Fish Translator, revealing a shard shaped like a lens, inscribed with mathematical fractals.

He empties a canister labeled "Quantum Vomit Stabilizer" and finds a swirling, glassy orb at the bottom, ticking backward.

Each of these pieces reacts faintly to the Time Turner when brought near. They're replacement pieces for the Eye, repurposed and lost across time and space. The fishing rod knew I would need them somehow.

He builds a makeshift containment rig in the Eye room, slowly assembling what looks like a swirling, floating nucleus of impossible energy. When he places each fragment into the pedestal, the ship shifts, a pulse, a groan, like an old engine remembering what it was.

Jonas stands before the Eye. Five of the six pieces float in place, humming in concert.

One slot remains.

The Time Turner.

He holds it in his hand, breath shallow.

But he waits.

Hermione's voice echoes again in his memory: "Only put it in when you're ready to leave."