Cael stood alone in the empty field outside the city, night folding around him like cool cloth. The air smelled of asphalt, oil, and faint salt from the harbor miles away. He had spent months refining the motion—the focus, the breath, the exact mental image—and tonight would be his first deliberate step beyond his own world.
He closed his eyes and pictured a door.
Not a literal one. A threshold, bright and thin, hanging in the air. Beneath his feet, the ground didn't quake this time; it only shivered, a quiet response to the pressure he exerted on space. A pale blue shimmer outlined the shape before him, neat as a mirror.
Cael exhaled and slipped through.
At once, blue light surrounded him—swirling, dense, alive. It wasn't chaotic; the energy spun with rhythm, a silent spiral that pulled him forward. The tunnel stretched endlessly, its color somewhere between lightning and deep water. There was weight here, a hum against his skin, but nothing painful. He moved the way a swimmer pushes through a slow current, balanced and sure.
Then the tunnel broke apart.
A rush of air hit his face—cold, salty, real.
He stood on a cracked sidewalk by a quiet street. Wooden houses lined the road, pastel paint faded by sea wind. A gull screamed somewhere overhead. The sky was late afternoon, heavy with the warmth of summer. A green sign on the corner read "Welcome to Quahog."
Cael blinked once, grounding himself. Every detail was tangible—the uneven boards on a porch, the chipped paint of a mailbox. Yet something about it all carried a faint exaggeration, as if the colors were dialed just a bit too high. Even the people walking past had movements that were a beat off from normal: quick turns, big gestures, voices a shade too loud.
He recognized them. Everyone who'd ever watched late-night TV would.
He just never thought he'd breathe the same air.
He walked.
Quahog was small and self-contained, a grid of narrow streets sloping toward the bay. The houses gave way to stores—a bakery, a corner market, a video-rental place with sun-bleached posters for movies from a decade ago. Somewhere, a radio played a jingle about low car insurance. The sound carried far in the still air.
When he reached the harbor, he saw the bar. Wooden sign above the door, neon clam glowing dull pink against the afternoon light. Two old trucks parked out front. The Drunken Clam.
Cael pushed the door open, careful to move like he belonged. The smell hit first: beer, salt, and fryer oil. Inside, the light was dim, walls covered in nautical junk and faded sports posters. A handful of regulars sat at the counter, laughing. Their voices were distinct, unmistakable—one booming, another slick and fast, one smooth and mellow. He didn't need names to know who they were supposed to be.
He slid onto a stool near the end of the bar, pretending to read a flyer while he listened.
"…and then I told him, buddy, that's not a dog, that's my wife's purse!"
Laughter exploded—sharp, ridiculous, contagious. Another voice cut through, lazy and teasing, and the group doubled over again.
Cael smiled despite himself. The rhythm was the same as television but heavier in person, like real people doing bits for no camera at all. He studied the way they moved—the glint of sweat on a glass, the scrape of a stool leg. Everything physical, every sound grounded. But the tone of their talk bent physics; jokes landed too perfectly, coincidences folded neatly on cue.
He ordered a soda. The bartender barely looked up, slid it across. The glass left a perfect ring on the counter, and Cael traced it with a fingertip. He felt calm. This was why he wanted to travel—not to worship other realities, but to touch them, collect them, understand how they worked.
Through the open door, sunlight spilled in, cutting the room in half. A radio behind the bar switched stations suddenly—first classic rock, then a pop song that would've been current fifteen years ago. The change felt wrong but normal here.
He stayed an hour. Listened. Memorized the timbre of the voices, the way laughter seemed to linger in the air a little too long. One of the men made a joke about flying carpets; another fell off his stool in perfect comedic timing and stood up unharmed. The room clapped. No one questioned physics.
Cael finished his drink and stepped outside.
The sun had dropped lower. The streetlamps hadn't turned on yet, but the sky carried that soft pink haze of a coastal evening. He walked down to the boardwalk, the planks creaking under his shoes. A breeze came off the water, tasting of brine and engine oil. Kids threw bread at gulls. Somewhere behind him, the same voices kept laughing, muffled now by distance.
He pulled a small notepad from his pocket and wrote a single line:
Humor sustains reality.
He wasn't sure why the thought came, but it fit. This world ran on punchlines, on timing so precise it bent causality. Maybe that was the engine here—the same way gravity ruled his home. Every world had rules; you just had to stay long enough to learn them.
When the sky deepened to blue, Cael decided to test his control.
He found an alley behind a convenience store, empty except for trash bins. He exhaled, pictured the field from which he came. The air around him shimmered faintly—thin, quiet, controlled. A faint blue outline, no brighter than moonlight, wrapped around him. The tunnel opened.
From the outside, it was nothing—a ripple of heat, gone before anyone could see.
From inside, it was vast.
The blue tunnel stretched ahead, spiraling slow and smooth. Streams of blue and hold light ran along invisible walls, each current alive but obedient. He stepped forward. The sensation was effortless, like drifting down a gentle current that knew exactly where to take him. A hum resonated in his bones but never grew loud.
Then the tunnel folded in on itself, and the smell of asphalt and summer air returned.
He stood back in the same field.
The city lights burned exactly as he'd left them. The clock on a distant billboard blinked the same minute. He checked his phone—barely ninety seconds had passed.
A slow grin crossed his face.
He sat down on the grass, letting the adrenaline taper off. For all the blue light and movement, his heartbeat was steady. His body handled the passage like a natural extension, no fatigue, no nausea. He looked at his hand, flexed his fingers. They felt denser somehow, anchored.
Across the field, a train rumbled by, windows flashing yellow in the dark. The ordinary sound grounded him more than anything else.
He lay back, staring up at the stars. Between them, he could almost imagine the faintest swirl of blue—residue of the space he'd just crossed. If he focused, he could feel the possibility tug at him again, gentle, patient, waiting.
Tomorrow, he'd do it longer.
Tomorrow, he'd map the boundaries.
For now, he let the quiet take him, the hum of distant traffic merging with the soft pulse of the Jumpforce still lingering under his skin.