“Morning, Ben! What did you think of the book?”

My dad, Sean, was seated across from me at the breakfast table with his food. I was sixteen. He took a bite of a disgustingly over-buttered bagel, leaving his short beard greasy while waiting for my response.

“It was short, kind of whimsical. It felt more like fantasy?” I replied. I had made the mistake of asking him for book recommendations early on in my teen years. This time, he had given me a copy of Rendezvous with Rama by Arthur C. Clarke.

“It was the 1970s! Computers were new; people didn’t know what technology was gonna look like,” he said, waving the dripping bagel over his plate. “Everything was fantasy. Dune, Star Wars, Hitchhiker’s Guide, hell, anything written by Asimov.”

“Star Wars isn’t even a book, and Dune was written in the sixties. Science fantasy—magical space wizards,” I retorted, making a mind-trick motion with my hand. I had attacked this point before, and I knew what his response would be. He looked at me blankly, took a long pull from his coffee mug, and sighed.

“There are more Star Wars books than you or I could read in a lifetime,” he shrugged. “But all the best science fiction is science fantasy.” He cleared his throat and grinned. “Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.”

I said it with him because I knew it was coming, though my response was much less enthusiastic.

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I gasped and blinked, my head pounding as consciousness flooded back. I was instantly awake again. Dad's voice echoed in my head, but it felt distant now, like an old recording playing in the background. Why was I thinking about that book? Maybe because I felt as lost now as I did then. The familiar kitchen scene with my dad was shoved to the back of my mind, replaced by a hazy, dust-filled room. Confusion washed over me as I struggled to make sense of my surroundings. Oh good, another room.

Slowly, I pushed myself up from the wooden floor, wincing at the ache in my muscles. I felt around. Yep, still naked. My hand brushed against something sticky on my temple, and I pulled it away to find my fingers stained with dried blood. Panic rose in my chest as I frantically patted my head, searching for a wound, but found nothing beyond matted hair and flakes of rust-colored crust.

As my eyes adjusted to the dim light filtering through grimy windows, I took in the scene around me. I was in what appeared to be a small tavern or bar, though it was unlike any I'd ever seen. Every surface was coated in a thick layer of dust, as if the place had been abandoned for decades. Cobwebs stretched between overturned chairs and tables, creating an intricate network of silvery threads that shimmered in the weak sunlight.

I finally stumbled to my feet, my mind struggling to piece together what had happened. The last thing I remembered was... a room. No, not just a room. A nightmare of impossible angles and shifting gravity. My stomach lurched at the memory of walls becoming floors, of falling endlessly, only to be attacked by the actual ceiling.

And then... something else. A flash of gold—intricate and impossible patterns etched themselves into the air around me, protecting me from whatever was happening in the room. It had to be protecting me; any doubt I had was gone when it actually fired something at me. It felt like... magic? But that was impossible. Magic wasn't real. It was just sufficiently advanced technology, right? Dad's voice echoed in my head, but I pushed it away. This wasn't the time for sci-fi debates. Or was it? What a conveniently timed memory…

My pulse quickened. The symbols weren't just there—they were everywhere. The golden circuits in the room flashed back into my mind. What the hell did they mean? And why were they following me? Protecting me?

I realized that it wasn't just the room covered in dust, but also me. How long had I been out? Certainly not long enough to accumulate this much, right?

As I brushed the dust from my skin, something caught my eye. Etched into the wooden floorboards beneath my feet, barely visible through the grime, was a symbol. It was familiar, yet alien—a series of interconnected lines and curves that seemed to hold meaning. My heart raced as I recognized it—it was like one of the glyphs that appeared in the golden energy circuits, but... inert.

I stumbled backward, kicking up more dust, my eyes darting around the room. Now that I was looking for them, I saw the symbols everywhere. They were burned into the walls, the bar top, even etched onto the ceiling beams. Some were simple—just a few lines intersecting at odd angles. Others were impossibly complex, burned into the surface with remarkable clarity. I reached out to touch one, but nothing happened—it was just a symbol burned into the wood, judging by the black soot that came away on my finger.

I shook my head, trying to clear the fog of confusion. Focus, Ben. First things first—clothes. I couldn't exactly explore this bizarre place in my birthday suit.

I scanned the room, my eyes darting from corner to corner. There! Draped over a rickety chair in the far corner, I spotted what looked like fabric. I rushed over, kicking up clouds of dust with each step, and snatched up the bundle. I unfolded my prize and examined it in the dim light. It was a curtain. Great. Holding out for something else, I wandered around the area, checking behind the bar.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

I ducked behind the bar, hoping to find something more substantial than a dusty curtain. The shelves were lined with bottles of various shapes and sizes, their contents a rainbow of colors from deep crimson to shimmering gold. I squinted at the labels, trying to decipher the strange script. It wasn’t quite English, but it felt like it was trying to be. Most letters looked like the Roman alphabet but slightly off. One bottle caught my attention and I picked it up—its contents a dark green with sparkles that literally threw light through the smooth glass. Blowing dust from the label, I thought I could read Deathroot among other unfamiliar words, though I couldn’t be sure. I blinked. Nope. No thanks, I’ll pass on the Deathroot, thank you. I carefully put the bottle back where it was originally.

Just as I replaced the ominous bottle, a tug in my chest made me pause. I hadn’t noticed it before—this pull, something like instinct, like the same force that warns you when you’re being watched. Slowly, I scanned the room again, my eyes settling on something half-hidden beneath the bar.

Tucked away beneath the bar, hanging from a pair of rusty hooks, was a long wooden staff. My fingers tingled as I reached for it, that strange pull growing stronger with every step. I wrapped my fingers around the smooth surface. It was surprisingly light, and as I lifted it from its resting place, I noticed it was coated in a strange tacky substance resembling grip tape.

On one end of the staff, a metallic yellow-copper orb appeared to have sunk into the wood, creating a protrusion of a gleaming metal sphere near the tip.

"Well, hello there," I murmured aloud, running my fingers along the staff's length. The orb at the end caught the dim light, refracting it in mesmerizing patterns across the dusty floor. I tapped it gently against the bar, and a soft, resonant tone rang out, vibrating through the air like a tuning fork.

"You're quite the fancy stick, aren't you?" I chuckled, giving it an experimental twirl. To my surprise, it moved effortlessly, as if it weighed nothing at all. It felt right in my hands, almost natural, like it had been waiting for me all along. The tacky grip allowed me to manipulate it with ease, and I found myself spinning it wildly, lifting dust all around me with the sharp movements of air.

As I spun the staff, I caught a glimpse of myself in a cracked mirror behind the bar. The sight stopped me cold. There I was, stark naked, covered in dust and dried blood, twirling a fancy stick like some deranged wizard. I burst out laughing, the sound echoing through the empty tavern.

"I think I’ll call you Winchester,” I said, nodding at the staff and the rusty hooks from which it came.

Shaking my head, I decided it was time to address my wardrobe situation. I grabbed the dusty curtain and shook it out, sending motes dancing through the air. It was a deep burgundy color, faded in places but still rich enough to look ridiculous. I draped it over my shoulder, trying to figure out how to fashion it into something wearable. After a few fumbling attempts, I managed to wrap it around my body in a sort of toga.

I wrapped the curtain around my waist, securing it with a knot. It wasn’t ideal, but it would have to do. The staff felt right in my hand, its weight comforting as I made my way toward the tavern's entrance.

The door creaked ominously as I pushed it open, sending a shower of dust cascading around me. I squinted against the sudden brightness, my eyes watering as they adjusted to the intense sunlight. As my vision cleared, I froze, my breath catching in my throat.

I stepped out onto a worn cobblestone street, my makeshift toga fluttering in a warm breeze. The sight before me stole my breath away. The tavern sat perched on the edge of a vast, sprawling city that stretched as far as the eye could see. Terraced streets cascaded down from my elevated position, creating a dizzying tapestry of stone and color.

At the heart of it all, dominating the skyline, rose an immense stepped pyramid that could rival any wonder of ancient Earth. Its sides gleamed with polished stone, adorned with intricate carvings and splashes of vibrant paint. Golden spires crowned its summit, piercing the sky like fingers reaching for the heavens.

But it was the sun that truly captured my attention. Hanging impossibly large and low in the sky, it bathed the city in an otherworldly amber glow. The celestial orb appeared wounded, as if struck by some cosmic bullet. A gaping hole marred its surface, and from this wound poured a cascade of solar fire. Tendrils of plasma and light stretched downwards toward the horizon, painting the sky in swirls of crimson, gold, and violet.

The heat hit me first. It pressed against my skin, intense and overwhelming, like standing too close to an open furnace. My mouth went dry as I stared at the city, the sheer scale of it making my head spin. My heart pounded faster. How could something so vast, so alien, be real?

I turned around, walked back into the tavern and slammed the door shut, my heart pounding in my chest. The latch clicked into place, and I leaned against the weathered wood, sliding down to the floor. My breath came in ragged gasps as the reality of my situation crashed over me like a tidal wave.

My hands trembled against the door. No amount of sarcasm could push back the growing sense of dread. This couldn't be happening. It was too much, too vivid, too... alien.

The image of that impossible sun burned behind my eyelids. I could still feel the warmth of its rays on my skin, see the writhing tendrils of plasma stretching across the sky. And that gargantuan city... My mind reeled, trying to make sense of the terraced streets, the vibrant colors, the sheer scale of it all.

I clutched Winchester to my chest, its smooth surface a cold comfort against my racing heart. The staff thrummed with an energy I couldn't explain, a faint vibration that seemed to resonate with my own panic.

"Okay, Ben," I muttered to myself, squeezing my eyes shut. "Think. Think!"

But thinking only made it worse. Every detail flooded back with crystal clarity: the metallic sheen of buildings catching the amber light, the eerie silence produced by a city that size, the taste of ozone in the air. Panic tightened in my chest, squeezing harder with every breath. Somewhere along the lines, I was pretty sure I fainted.