Charlie stepped into the small laundromat on 5th and Willow, the one with flickering lights and that ever-present hum of machines hard at work. The place was mostly empty save for an old man snoring on a plastic bench and a teenager scrolling through his phone, earbuds in.
Charlie made a beeline for one of the front-load washers. He peeled off his hoodie with a wince — the girl's vomit had dried thick and sour. With a few coins clinking into the slot and a twist of the dial, the machine roared to life, water rushing in as the drum began to spin.
He stepped back, checked the timer: 28 minutes.
With nothing better to do, he slid into a cracked plastic chair and pulled out his phone.
> Charlie: "Gonna be a bit late. At the laundromat."
Alfred: 👍
Charlie slipped the phone back into his pocket and glanced down at the bag that now sat at his feet — the girl's leather bag. It was heavier than it looked and gave off a faint, earthy smell, like old parchment or something from a dusty attic. The leather was thick, cracked in places, and rough to the touch. Old. But solid.
He hesitated, then unfastened the worn straps and flipped the top open.
Inside were strange things.
No wallet. No phone. No ID.
Instead, nestled within the folds were:
A book, bound in uneven fabric with symbols stitched along the spine. No title.
A thin, dark metal bracelet, etched with swirling patterns that caught the light in an odd way.
And a stick — not a twig or a branch, but a wand, clearly carved and shaped. It was smooth, with faint carvings and a slight curve, almost like it had been used for years.
There were other things too — dried herbs in pouches, tiny bottles of liquid, a broken compass-looking thing — but Charlie stopped himself. It felt wrong, like he was digging through someone's soul.
Still, the bracelet pulled at him.
He held it in his hand for a moment, letting the cool metal settle in his palm. It was heavier than expected. It felt… familiar? Comforting? He couldn't place it, but something in his gut stirred. A flicker of warmth passed through his fingertips.
Then it passed.
Charlie shook it off and placed the bracelet back where he found it. He closed the bag carefully and set it beside him again, just as the washer beeped once — cycle done.
He pulled the damp hoodie out, wrinkling his nose. Still wet, but clean. He slung it over his arm.
With the girl's bag over one shoulder, his backpack in the other hand, and the plastic grocery bag swinging from his fingers, Charlie pushed out into the cooling evening, the laundromat door closing behind him with a soft ding.
******************
Meanwhile for Irdra, her world was spinning.
She couldn't tell which way was up. Through that cursed portal, her body had been stretched like taffy, compressed like a sponge, and twisted like a knotted rope all at once. Her head throbbed with each pulse of unstable magic still swirling around her, the sound of it like a choir of whispers shrieking into her skull. Her breath came in bursts. The ride through dimensions was never easy — but this one had been especially brutal.
"Did I break through the wrong gate?" she thought, limbs flailing through an endless tunnel of flickering shapes and glitched light.
Worry gnawed at her gut. Earth wasn't supposed to be this... warped. She should have landed gently. But instead—
SLAM.
Her face hit concrete.
For a moment, she just lay there. Flat on the cold pavement. Groaning. Saliva and nausea threatened to spill out of her mouth. Her body felt like it had just been unmade and reassembled by a blind child. Her head was pounding. She pushed herself up on trembling arms, still too weak to fully rise, when—
BEEEEEEEEEEP!
A massive blast of sound exploded in her ear. Her eyes snapped open just in time to see blinding twin lights barreling toward her.
She rolled to the side.
Just barely.
Tires screeched behind her as the vehicle whipped past, missing her by inches. Someone cursed loudly from a window.
She was up again — staggering more than running — as people turned and gawked at the mess of a girl who just popped out of nowhere and nearly got killed. Their faces, their colors, the sounds around her… they were all distorted, like oil on water. Light and shadow mingled in sickly ways. She couldn't tell if she was still dreaming.
Still dizzy. Still reeling.
She stumbled through a crowd, bumping shoulders, pushing through gaps, her hands flailing to catch balance.
"Watch it!"
"Freakin' tourists!"
She barely heard them. Her feet weren't even working right. The ground tilted and shifted as if she were running over waves. But still — she kept moving. She had to move.
And then, as she tried to cut a corner, she tripped.
Her foot caught on something — a pipe? a cord? — and she fell, tumbling downward through a hidden gap between two buildings.
She landed hard, slamming against old dusty boards and stone. The air was knocked out of her. Her cheek stung. A sharp piece of plaster dug into her palm.
She groaned, finally still.
This place… it smelled like mold, wet wood, and rust. When her blurred vision steadied just a bit, she could make out cracked walls and hanging beams. The place looked like a forgotten memory — an abandoned house that had waited years to fall apart but hadn't quite finished the job.
And then it hit her.
A new kind of panic.
She clutched her side, suddenly realizing the weight that should have been there — wasn't.
Her bag.
Her bag!
She sat up so fast her vision went dark again. "No no no no…"
With a snap of her fingers, a tiny electric jolt zapped across her temple — a mental reset spell — a trick she'd learned for moments just like this. She blinked rapidly. The dizziness faded, at least a little.
She checked around. The bag wasn't with her.
"Did I drop it in the portal?"
She scrambled to her feet and started combing through the broken mess of the abandoned home. Shattered furniture, heaps of dirt, rusted pipes, scraps of rotted curtains and clothes all layered the place.
She got on her knees. Crawled under broken counters. Flipped over a cracked drawer. No sign of it.
"Come on, come on…"
She held out her hand, focused, and whispered something in a strange tongue.
A flicker. Nothing.
She tried again. Still no light.
"Ugh—"
She shook her wrist, remembered the correct incantation this time, and with a soft humm, a tiny orb of pale blue light blinked into existence above her palm.
"There we go…"
She started scanning the room with it, casting dancing light against the walls.
And then—
"HEY!"
A voice.
She yelped.
An old man — filthy, grizzled, hunched in the corner — had apparently been asleep in the rubble, or maybe watching her the whole time. He stepped forward, hands up, grinning with three teeth.
"What are you doin' in my house, huh?!"
"AHHHH!"
She chucked the orb of light — full-force — straight into his face.
The ball exploded in a sharp crack of light, sending the old man tumbling backward, tripping over a pile of junk and falling flat on his back with a hard thud.
She winced.
Then whispered: "…oops."
Irdra stared at the old man, lying on the dusty floor, motionless. She tiptoed over cautiously, her steps crunching bits of glass and wood beneath her feet. She crouched beside him, poked his shoulder once… then again.
".....you alive?" she whispered.
No response.
She bit her lip, panicking. "Oh no, I fried a guy."
She looked around quickly, grabbed a rusted old tin can from nearby, then held it over the man's forehead.
"Okay, okay. Just a tap. Just to make sure he's not pretending or—"
As she loosened her grip, the old man's eyes snapped open. He rolled sideways with surprising speed, narrowly dodging the can as it clattered beside him.
"Hey!" he barked, pointing a shaky finger at her. "Are you out of your damn mind?! That's attempted murder! You trying to go to jail?! I know people, you know. I can press charges!"
"I—I wasn't gonna kill you! It's a reflex, a trick—just something we do back home. I swear!" she blurted out.
"Some 'trick,'" the old man muttered, dusting himself off. "Where the hell's 'home,' a circus?"
That word again—home. It hit her like a rock. Her breath caught in her throat. Her head throbbed. She groaned and dropped to her knees, clutching her temples as the dull electric pulse returned. A knot tightened in her gut.
"Whoa, hey now," the old man said, his tone softening. "Easy, easy."
He crouched beside her and pulled a crinkled plastic bag from his coat pocket. It had some kind of herb or dried something inside—smelled sharp, like mint and dust.
"Here. Inhale slow," he instructed, holding it out.
Irdra obeyed, breathing in deep. The scent grounded her. Another breath. Her head started to clear, the pain fading to a dull whisper.
"There you go," the old man said, watching her carefully. "What're you, twelve?"
"Seventeen."
"Huh." He sat back against the wall and looked her over. "You with one of those demo crews?"
She blinked. "What?"
"You know—the city people. Wrecking teams. They come through sometimes. Tag buildings like this one. You one of them?"
She shook her head.
"Alright. You from around here, at least?"
She shook her head again, slower this time.
"Mm." He scratched his chin. "You got someone you can call? Parents, friends, a handler? Anyone?"
Her chest tightened. The image of the bottle—the one in the leather bag, flashed in her mind. Her bag. Gone. She wrapped her arms around herself and looked away.
"Hey," the man said gently. "Do that breath thing again. In through the nose, slow."
She did. Once. Twice. Her shoulders relaxed.
She looked around. Broken beams. Torn curtains. Graffiti half-covered by ivy. This place had stories. And silence.
"You eat anything recently?" he asked.
She thought. Shook her head. "I threw up. A lot."
"Sounds like you had a hell of a day." He stood up and offered her a hand. "Come on. You'll think straighter with something in your stomach. Worry about the rest after."
She hesitated… then took it.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"Just out back," he replied. "I got a kettle and some cans that ain't killed me yet. That's a good sign."
Irdra nodded slowly, and followed.