"Morning, Ben! You like the book, or was this one crap too?"

  My dad, Sean, attacked his breakfast like it had offended him, his plate struggling under a mountain of food. I was sixteen at the time, still na?ve enough to think that asking him for book recommendations was a good idea. He chomped into a bagel so saturated with butter it practically dripped golden grease, a glistening smear immediately appearing on his short beard. His eyes sparkled with that particular brand of parental enthusiasm that meant I was about to get a lecture disguised as a conversation.

  "It was short, kinda whimsical. Felt more like fantasy?" I ventured carefully, knowing I was walking into a trap. This time, his weapon of choice had been by Arthur C. Clarke—a book that read like someone had described science fiction to a robot who'd never experienced human emotion.

  "It was the 1970s!" He punctuated his point by waving the bagel like it was helping make his point, sending butter droplets flying dangerously close to Mom's good tablecloth. "Computers were new. Nobody knew what technology was gonna look like. Everything was fantasy back then. Dune, Star Wars, Hitchhiker's Guide. Hell, anything by Asimov."

  "If you get butter on the tablecloth again, Mom's going to shank you," I warned, tracking an ambitious grease droplet as it threatened from the edge of his bagel. "Also, Star Wars isn't even a book, and Dune was published in the sixties. Science fantasy—you know, magical space wizards." I wiggled my fingers in what I hoped was a suitably mystical gesture, the kind that would make Obi-Wan shake his head in disappointment.

  He fixed me with that look parents perfect somewhere between changing diapers and teaching you to drive—equal parts fond exasperation and 'I brought you into this world.' He took a long pull from his coffee mug, the one with 'World's Okayest Dad' printed on it in fading letters, and released a theatrical sigh.

  "There are more Star Wars books than you or I could read in a lifetime," he countered with a shrug that sent more butter flying.

  "But all the best science fiction is science fantasy." He cleared his throat, assuming his lecture pose—shoulders back, chin up, one finger raised like he was about to drop universal truth. "Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic."

  We recited Clarke's Third Law together, though my version came out with decidedly less enthusiasm.

  The dream shattered as consciousness slammed back into me with all the subtlety of a train. This time, though, my body felt like it had been on the tracks. Every muscle screamed in protest. My ears hosted their own personal heavy metal concert of ringing, and heat pressed down on me like a weighted blanket—one that had been left in a pizza oven.

  Wherever the hell I was, it definitely wasn't that angry domed room anymore. Things had at least graduated from to , which felt like an improvement.

  "Okay, Ben. Round two of 'where the fuck am I,'" I croaked, my voice coming out like I'd been gargling gravel.

  Sitting up proved to be a mistake. The world tilted violently, my head pounding out a rhythm that could probably hold time at a Mastodon concert. My hand instinctively went to my scalp—sticky warmth met my fingers. Blood. Fantastic. My day was really shaping up to be a winner.

  But as I gingerly explored my skull, expecting to find injuries carved into my head, I found... nothing. No gash, no wound, not even a respectable bump. Just blood that apparently had no business being there. Was it someone else's? That thought sent ice through my veins, because last I checked, I'd been by myself this whole time.

  The spots dancing in my vision finally cleared enough to reveal my surroundings, and my heart attempted a jailbreak through my ribs. I sat dead center in what looked like some sort of restaurant or tavern. Ragged tables and chairs that didn’t look normal were scattered around the room. Everything, including yours truly, wore a thick coating of what my optimistic brain initially labeled as dust.

  A cough ripped through me as I stirred up whatever this coating was, and I struggled to my feet like a newborn giraffe.

  . Still naked. Because apparently, space travel had a strict no-clothes policy.

  A grimy window lurked next to where I'd been unconscious, looking like someone had painted it black. Whatever passed for sunlight here was fighting a losing battle against the filth. I trudged over, each step careful and measured to avoid creating dust devils, my bare feet making soft contact with the wooden floor.

  The window cleaning attempt with my palm achieved what could generously be called moderate success.

  My eyes landed on the long wooden bar that had somehow dodged the worst of whatever catastrophe had redecorated this place. Several folded cloth panels sat conveniently stacked on top, like someone had been interrupted while doing laundry. Curtains? Tablecloths? Ghost costumes? At this point, I wasn't ruling anything out.

  I grabbed the topmost piece—heavy gray fabric that felt like it could double as either a blanket or a heavy curtain, depending on my needs. Perfect for my current window-cleaning and modesty-preserving requirements.

  Hot sunlight burst through as I wiped away the grime. The sudden brightness sent me stumbling backwards, arms windmilling for balance, which naturally kicked up more particles that sent me into another coughing fit. Because dignity was apparently on vacation.

  "Fuck me," I wheezed between hacks, as golden light flooded the room and revealed the spectacular truth of my situation.

  It wasn't dust. Oh no, that would've been too simple, too normal for whatever cosmic bullshit I'd stumbled into. This was soot—black, greasy, clingy soot that looked like it had ambitions of becoming tar when it grew up. I had been in the epicenter of what could only be described as Ground Zero. The soot formed a perfect circle around where I'd woken up, like someone had detonated a very precise, very sooty bomb.

  The ceiling above showed its own story—charred wood and melted metal fixtures creating an almost artistic pattern of destruction, like a twisted mandala. Tables and chairs near the center had been reduced to carbonized skeletons, ready to crumble at the slightest provocation.

  But the truly weird part? The soot circle had laser accurate boundaries. The bar remained pristine, those curtains untouched, like the destruction had hit an invisible wall and politely stopped.

  "Process the sci-fi weirdness later," I muttered, picking my way across the floor like I was navigating a minefield. "First things first. Clothes. Because nothing says 'not handling the situation well' like running around naked."

  I grabbed a fresh gray curtain and began the ancient art of toga-wrapping, which turns out is way harder than Hollywood makes it look. After several attempts, I managed something that could generously be called ‘coverage’. It was uncomfortable, unflattering, and made me look like I'd lost a fight with a fabric store, but it beat the alternative.

  Now somewhat dressed, I made my way around the bar to investigate what this establishment offered beyond soot and existential crisis.

  Dozens of bottles stood at attention on the shelves, twinkling in the sunlight. I picked one up, squinting at the label through the dancing dust motes.

  English! Or at least English-adjacent, written by someone who apparently thought consistent lettering was too much work. Some letters hugged each other while others stood way too far apart.

  I replaced the bottle carefully and grabbed another—this one made of glass so dark it seemed to absorb light, like someone had bottled liquid midnight.

  "Nope!" The bottle went back on the shelf so fast it wobbled. "We'll pass on the Deathroot wine, thanks very much. I've read enough fantasy novels to know where that leads."

  My exploration continued, fingers trailing along the bar's smooth surface. The craftsmanship was genuinely impressive—no splinters waiting to ambush unsuspecting fingers, just worn-smooth wood that spoke of countless nights, countless drinks, countless stories.

  That's when I spotted it. Suspended on simple hooks under the bar, positioned right where a bartender could grab it quickly—a long stick that immediately triggered every 'bar fight insurance policy' neuron in my brain.

  Old western movies flashed through my mind. This was where the barkeep kept the shotgun, the baseball bat, the “you've had enough, friend” enforcer.

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  I reached out and grabbed it before my brain could file the proper 'this might be stupid' paperwork.

  The weight surprised me—substantial but not heavy, like it was denser than it appeared. About a meter long, the thing looked more like an elegant walking cane than a weapon. The shaft was solid black wood with a surface that felt tacky under my grip, like someone had wrapped it in that specialized grip tape athletes use. But the real showstopper sat at one end—a metallic orange orb that seemed fused into the wood with impossible precision, catching and throwing back sunlight like captured fire.

  Curiosity overtook caution. I tapped the orb gently against the bar.

  The clear metallic note rang out like a tuning fork, hanging in the air longer than physics should've allowed. The sound sent pleasant vibrations through the shaft and into my hands, almost like the stick was purring.

  An experimental swing produced a low, musical hum as the orb cut through the air. Even moving slowly, the thing sang, sending those strange vibrations up my arms. It felt alive somehow, responsive in a way that made no logical sense.

  My feet found their positions almost automatically as muscle memory kicked in. Tai Chi forms flowed through me—it had been months since I'd seriously practiced, but the movements came back like greeting old friends. The stick moved like an extension of my body, its weight perfectly distributed, every shift and turn feeling as natural as breathing.

  "You're quite the fancy stick," I said to my reflection in the orb's polished surface. "I think I'll call you Winchester. Because... well, I'm sure someone will get the reference eventually."

  Movement caught my eye—a mirror behind the bar, surprisingly clean despite the soot apocalypse everywhere else. I froze mid-form, staring at my reflection in growing horror.

  There I stood: high martial arts stance, clutching Winchester like I was about to star in a kung fu movie, wearing a gray curtain toga that made me look a hobo.

  I looked absolutely ridiculous.

  Laughter burst out of me before I could stop it, the sound bouncing off the tavern walls with manic energy. If someone had told me yesterday I'd be standing in an alien bar, dressed in curtains, holding a singing stick, I'd have asked if they were hosting a tabletop game.

  Shaking my head at the cosmic absurdity, I stepped out from behind the bar. Armed and "clothed"—using the loosest possible definition of both terms—it was time to figure out what in the actual hell was happening here.

  The soot circle demanded investigation. I wiped more windows clean, letting golden light flood the space until I could properly examine the damage. The precision was unsettling—a perfect black circle scorched into both ceiling and floor like someone had used a giant compass made of fire. Everything caught in between had been incinerated, but without the acrid charcoal smell that should've accompanied this much burning.

  I touched a chair experimentally. It disintegrated instantly, becoming one with the soot brotherhood and sending up a cloud that triggered another coughing fit. Note to self: stop touching the furniture of doom.

  But outside that circle? Pristine. Untouched. Like the destruction had hit an invisible barrier and respected the boundaries. The contrast was stark enough to make my brain hurt—or maybe that was the head trauma. Hard to tell at this point.

  The heavy wooden door beckoned, practically yelling at me to open it. The heat inside had turned the tavern into a sauna, so whatever was outside had to have serious temperature issues. Desert? Volcanic hellscape? Surface of a star?

  That last thought brought back the memory of the fractal dome collapsing, reality folding in on itself like origami made of nightmares. My hand hesitated on the door handle.

  I looked around the surprisingly normal tavern and forced myself to take a breath. If aliens ran bars that looked this familiar, they probably weren't too different from us, right? Maybe they were humanoid bartenders serving drinks, complaining about their shifts just like Earth bartenders.

  The door handle was warm under my palm—not burning, but definitely broadcasting that the outside was going to be toasty. I took a deep breath that tasted of soot and rapidly evaporating sanity, then pushed open the heavy wooden door.

  Blazing daylight assaulted my eye, and I stepped outside and froze.

  The tavern stood on a raised stone terrace overlooking a city that broke every rule my brain had about architecture. Imagine if ancient Aztec builders had gotten drunk with Japanese pagoda designers and created something that would make archaeologists scratch their heads. Massive step pyramids of stone rose between delicate multi-tiered buildings painted in reds and blues so vibrant they seemed to give off light. Cobblestone streets wound between structures, creating patterns that hurt to follow.

  At the city's heart, a golden pyramid dominated everything else, its surface gleaming with the kind of shine that made you wonder if it was actually made of gold or just really committed to the aesthetic. Massive pillars reached skyward from its peak, framing something that made my blood freeze in my veins.

  My eyes traveled up, following those pillars to the sky, to the sun that hung there like—

  Oh.

  Oh, .

  The sun was wrong. Not 'hmm, that seems off' wrong, but a deep, primal sense of animalistic dread.

  It hung in the sky like a cosmic wound, easily three times the size our sun should be, glowing a pale, angry red like a dying ember. But that wasn't even the worst part. A massive black gash split its surface, a wound in the star itself from which rivers of solar fire poured into space. Tendrils of plasma cascaded downward toward the planet in slow motion, painting the sky in impossible colors—crimson mixing with violet, gold swirling through depths of burning orange.

  It was beautiful in the way a nuclear explosion is beautiful—awesome in the original sense of the word, terrible and magnificent and completely outside the scope of human experience.

  I stood there, eyes watering from the brightness despite the sun's dimness, feeling very small and very far from home. The silence was complete—no birds, no insects, no distant sounds of life. A city built for thousands, maybe millions, and the only movement came from colorful tapestries swaying in the scorching breeze like flags at a funeral.

  My brain finally kicked back online with a single, helpful thought: .

  I spun on my heel and power-walked back into the tavern, dragging the door shut with probably more force than necessary. The solid thunk of wood against the frame felt satisfying. Door closed. Cosmic horror shut outside. Problem solved.

  I made it maybe three steps before my legs decided they'd had quite enough of this 'standing' business. Thank you very much. My knees buckled like someone had cut my strings, and I crashed to the floor with all the grace of a dropped piano. Winchester clattered beside me, probably judging my inability to handle basic motor functions.

  My heart hammered against my ribs like it was trying to escape—which, fair enough, I wanted to escape too. The image of that wounded sun burned behind my eyelids seared into my retinas like an old film negative. I could still feel its alien heat on my skin, crawling across me like living things.

  The thought hit me with physical force, driving what little air remained from my lungs. It wasn’t a dream. This wasn't a hallucination. This was real in a way that made every assumption I'd ever had about reality seem childish.

  I clutched Winchester to my chest like a security blanket and curled up on the floor, trying to convince my lungs that breathing was still a good idea despite all the evidence to the contrary. Each breath came in short, sharp gasps that tasted of soot and existential terror.

  Was I stranded here? How did I even get here? Had the golden runes been some kind of cosmic Uber that crashed into a dead world?

  The familiar weight of panic pressed down on my chest, but I fought it back through sheer stubbornness. Lying on the floor in the fetal position might feel safe, but it wasn't exactly a long-term strategy. My curiosity—that wonderful, terrible voice that had insisted I experiment with a magical light—now wouldn't let me stay down.

  This was terrifying, . But it was also impossibly, incredibly exciting. Humanity wouldn't be exploring distant worlds in my lifetime—hell, we were still arguing about whether the moon landing was faked by people who thought the Earth was flat. Yet here I was, through some insane cosmic lottery, actually on an alien planet.

  Shouldn't I at least look around before I died of dehydration, alien plague, or terminal embarrassment from my outfit?

  The morbid thought actually helped. This curiosity felt real, felt like me, not like that artificial fascination from the dome. I was scared shitless, but I was also the person who'd rather die investigating something cool than hide under a table.

  I pushed myself up using Winchester as an improvised cane, finally letting loose a productive cough that brought up something black and viscous that absolutely should not have been in my lungs. I spat it onto the floor with extreme prejudice. This soot situation was probably taking years off my life with every breath, but what was I going to do—hold my breath forever?

  First order of business: supplies. And where better to start than behind a well-stocked bar? At minimum, I could use the alcohol to sterilize wounds. At maximum, I could get drunk enough that this all seemed like a reasonable situation.

  I wheeled back around the bar with newfound purpose, right as the universe reminded me I was its personal joke.

  My toga—and I use that term generously—snagged on a drawer handle. Since I'd wrapped myself up like a sad-looking mummy, the fabric began unwinding as I moved. Physics and dignity collaborated on what happened next.

  I spun involuntarily, arms windmilling for the balance that had already left the building. My feet tangled in the unwinding fabric like I was inventing a Tai Chi form called "Dying Swan Gets Undressed." The universe, seeing an opportunity for maximum embarrassment, made sure my head found the liquor shelf with unerring accuracy.

  The impact rang through my skull like someone had used it as a bell. The toga came free just as gravity remembered I existed, and I hit the ground hard enough to drive what little air I'd gathered straight back out of my lungs.

  Stars danced across my vision in a constellation I was pretty sure spelled out 'dumbass' in cosmic script. I lay there on the floor, staring up at the wooden ceiling that was doing its best kaleidoscope impression, wondering if concussions worked the same on another planet.

  "Ow," I observed brilliantly to no one.

  My head throbbed in stereo—the fresh impact competing with whatever had left me bloody earlier. I reached over to pull the wayward curtain back over myself, trying to salvage some shred of dignity from the wreckage of my coordination.

  That's when I noticed it.

  A black bottle on the top shelf, wobbling with the slow certainty of comedic timing. It teetered on the edge, deciding whether to fall, while I watched with the helpless fascination of someone seeing a car accident in slow motion.

  I tried to move. My body, still processing the fact that we'd just been horizontal against our will, responded with all the speed of government bureaucracy. I turned my head slightly left—a heroic effort that accomplished exactly nothing.

  The bottle made its choice.

  The base connected with my temple with the precision of a cosmic punchline, right on the money.

  The world went dark.