The Doors to Elsewhere

Chapter 2: A Missing Vending Machine

 

Chapter 2: A Missing Vending Machine

"And then I said, 'It's not the size of the wand, it's the size of the magic, baby.'"

One of the other janitors, Randal, laughed as he leaned over and spat tobacco juice into a tin can. He had a broad, flat face and a big, bushy beard that made him look a bit like a walrus.

Graham stood at the far end of the east hallway, mop in hand. He worked in slow, steady strokes, the rhythm automatic after years of practice. The sound of the mop sliding across the tile filled the silent hallway.

Randal was a good enough guy to hang out with at work, but he was also a talker. A dirty-joke-telling, tall-story-bulls***ting talker.

"Good one," Graham replied. He was used to this song and dance. Randal liked to tell his life stories, and he pretended to listen. Most of them were about his time in prison or his many failed attempts to get women. The conversation had been going for a while.

"So, anyway, she's still lying there, butt-naked, and the guy's out cold. So I put my clothes back on, grabbed my stuff, and left. I didn't want to deal with any questions when the cops came or anything like that. But, damn, she was a fine piece of ass. I thought about going back, just to say goodbye, you know, but then I'd have had to explain why I was there to the cops. She was a teacher, too, and she had a reputation. Probably got up the next morning and went to class like nothing happened."

Randal leaned over and hocked a loogie, a string of spit hanging from his mouth before breaking free and falling into the can. "So, anyway, that's my bad-egg story. What's yours?"

"Not sure if I have one," Graham answered.

"What? Everybody's got a bad-egg story. C'mon, think. There has to be one in there."

Another wet hock into the can.

Graham leaned the mop against the wall and crossed his arms, thinking for a moment. Then he gave a small nod.

"Alright," he said. "There was this girl I dated for a bit back in college. Worked at a small pharmacy near campus. One night, maybe close to midnight, she calls me, panicking. Says her manager caught her pocketing a bottle of sleeping pills. She begs me to come down and talk to the guy before he calls the cops or the store owner.”

Randal straightened a little, eyebrows raised.

“I get there and I find her pacing out back behind the store like a stray cat. Her manager’s inside, red in the face, ready to blow a gasket. I go inside and tell him she’s got mental health issues, that she’s trying to get clean, and I offer him a hundred bucks to just... forget it. To let it go.”

“He takes it?” Randal asked, leaning in.

“Yeah. He grumbles a lot, but he takes the cash. Tells us to get lost.” Graham paused. “Before we do, my girl grabs me, drags me into the stock room. Starts kissing me like she’s high on adrenaline. Next thing I know, I’m half-undressed, we’re knocking over meds from the shelves on accident, and somehow we press the exit door button and the damn backdoor alarm starts wailing because she forgot to disable it."

Randal’s eyes were wide, mouth cracked into a grin.

“We ran like hell,” Graham finished. “Me trying to yank my jeans up, her laughing like it was the best night of her life. The manager chased us for a good while, before he got tired and couldn't keep up. I never went back to that pharmacy again.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Randal slapped his knee and laughed so hard he wheezed.

“Holy hell, Graham! That’s what I’m talkin’ about! Damn! I thought you were all vanilla, but you’ve got some chaos under the hood, don’t you?”

Graham shrugged. “We all do. Some of us just keep it quieter.”

Randal grinned, wagging a finger at him. “See, I knew there was a reason I liked you. You’re a dark horse, man. A sleeper agent of sin.”

Graham picked the mop back up, dipping it in the bucket with a soft splash. “Let’s not get carried away.”

“Too late. You’re officially bad-egg certified.”

Graham started mopping again. Randal picked up the broom, and the conversation drifted toward sports and television and the latest dumb thing a hotel guest had done. It was the usual stuff, and Graham let it wash over him, only giving the occasional grunt or nod.

Eventually, Randal's phone vibrated and he stopped to pull it from his pocket.

"Aw, s***. Wife's calling. Time to head home. You done with the east hallway yet?"

"Just about."

"Cool, man. West side was done about an hour ago, so you're free to go. You got plans for tonight?"

"Nope."

"Lucky bastard. I'm going to be spending the evening with the missus."

Graham didn't want to know what that meant. "See you tomorrow, Randal."

"See ya."

Randal turned and headed down the hall.

Graham watched him go, then set the mop back in the bucket and started rolling it down the hall.

The elevator at the end of the hall chimed softly.

Footsteps followed—a quick, confident rhythm against the hard surface. Graham didn’t turn at first.

"Late night?"

Graham glanced over his shoulder. Amy, one of the concierges, was approaching. Mid-thirties, dark hair tied back, wearing the crisp navy suit the hotel required of all front-desk staff. She held a tablet in one hand, the faint glow of the screen reflecting off her polished nails.

"Always is," Graham said.

Amy smiled faintly. "You’re lucky you’re up here. There’s a wedding on the fourth floor. Half the groom’s side is already drunk."

Graham dipped the mop into the bucket at his side. "Any casualties yet?"

"One guy puked in the stairwell." Amy wrinkled her nose. "Housekeeping is still trying to figure out how it got on the ceiling."

Graham raised an eyebrow. "Impressive."

"Yeah, that’s one word for it."

Amy tapped something on her tablet, the glow from the screen tracing a pale line across her face. Her gaze flicked toward him briefly. "Night shift again, huh?"

"Yep. Routine," Graham said simply.

Amy’s eyes lingered on him for a second longer than necessary. A question forming—but not spoken. She seemed to think better of it and let it pass.

"Alright, well…" She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Don’t work too hard."

"You too."

Amy smiled—polite, professional. Her heels clicked softly against the floor as she walked away. The elevator doors slid open, and then she was gone.

Graham watched the numbers above the elevator tick down.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

The hallway settled back into quiet.

Graham wrung out the mop, the thin line of water tracing a narrow path back toward the bucket. From beyond the glass panes inside the hallway, the muted sounds of traffic floated up from the street below—faint and far away. The occasional muffled honk of a horn, the siren call of an ambulance, all of it softened by the height and the thickness of the concrete walls. It was barely there, a thin layer of noise beneath the quiet, just enough to remind him that the city was still moving, alive and well, even after midnight.

He turned back toward the hallway—

"Hey, Graham."

Another voice. Male this time.

Graham turned. One of the younger janitors—Jeremy—was walking toward him from the opposite end of the hall, hands in the pockets of his coveralls. He was tall and thin, early twenties maybe, his blond hair falling in careless waves over his forehead.

"Did someone take the vending machine down?" Jeremy asked.

There was a faint twang to his words, like he was holding an invisible cigarette between his lips.

Graham frowned. "What?"

"The vending machine in the south hall. Did you see someone move it?"

"No, why?"

"It's not there. I was gonna get a drink and it's gone."

Graham straightened. "The entire vending machine?"

"Yeah."

"That's weird."

"Right?"

Graham paused, the mop handle clutched tightly in his hands.

"Figured you’d know something about it," Jeremy said. "It was there last night, right?"

"It's always been there."

"Not anymore." Jeremy’s gaze drifted toward the far end of the hall.

Graham’s eyes followed his. "Maybe maintenance moved them."

"Guess so."

There was a pause. A thin thread of silence winding between them.

"Anyway," Jeremy said, already turning toward the end of the hallway behind Graham. "See you around."

"Yeah."

Jeremy pushed the call button and the elevator arrived. He stepped inside and gave a small wave. The doors closed.

Graham looked back down the hall, the lights gleaming against the tile.

His eyes moved slowly over the empty space. He listened to the silence for a long moment. The soft, steady hum of the air conditioner. The gentle buzz of the fluorescent bulbs. The faint, faraway sounds of the city below.

He dipped the mop back into the bucket, the water sloshing softly against the sides. The wet fibers of the mop dragged across the floor.

Back and forth.

Again and again.

His mind began to drift.

That message from Sam had been sitting on his phone for over a day now. He didn’t know why he kept waiting. It wasn’t like he was busy. He could have responded in five seconds—Yeah, sure. When?—but somehow the thought of it made his chest feel tight.

It wasn’t about Sam, not really. He liked Sam. Always had. But opening that door meant opening up a part of himself he wasn’t sure still existed. It had been years since he’d really let anyone in. That version of him—the one who could sit across from someone and talk about his life, really talk—felt like it belonged to someone else. A different Graham.

Because what was he supposed to say? Hey, Sam. Things are great. Still working the same job. Living in the same apartment. Watching the same shows. Listening to the same music. His life was a closed loop—repeating the same steps day after day. Clean floors. Go home. Sleep. Repeat.

Maybe that was why he hadn’t answered. If he sat across from Sam now, would she even recognize him? Would she see the person he used to be—or the quiet, careful version of himself that he had become?

He twisted the mop in his hand, the pressure building in his wrist.

Maybe he was overthinking it. That used to be Sam's most obvious trait. It seemed like the universe had switched their roles at some point. He used to be the impulsive one, the one who acted first and thought later. And she used to be the measured one. She was the one who talked him out of a lot of bad ideas, like the time they decided to take his dad's truck and go mudding with a group of kids from their high school. Sam was the one who stopped him before he took it off-road. And when he crashed it a month later, she was the one who convinced him what a stupid idea it would be to go streetracing again.

He smiled to himself. He could almost hear her voice, the familiar echo of her laugh.

And that was it, wasn't it? The reason he didn't want to respond. Because if he did, the spell would be broken. Whatever fantasy he was imagining, whatever version of Sam he'd built for himself in his head, it would all come tumbling down.

And the truth was, he liked the idea of her more than the reality. Because if he actually had her back in his life, things would change. And he wasn't sure if he was ready for that.

He looked up.

The hall ahead remained empty and still. It ended in a blank wall. No windows. No doors. Just smooth, unbroken white. At the end of the hallway, the rows of apartments stretched away into darkness in each direction, left and right.

He let out a slow breath.

He was tired.

Too many nights on his feet. Too many hours spent listening to Randal mindlessly blabber about his one-night stands.

The clock above the elevator was still moving. 1:12. 1:13.

It’s gone.

Jeremy’s voice came back to him, his brow furrowing in confusion.

The vending machine.

He hadn’t seen it when he walked past the south hallway. Not that he was looking, exactly, but it was impossible to miss. He hadn't thought much of it while he was talking to Jeremy, but now the thought stuck. He’d been cleaning these floors for over a decade. There had been no new machines installed on this floor, no new renovations. No upgrades. Nothing had been added to the fifth floor since he had been hired.

And now, apparently, something had been removed.

A flicker of unease curled low in his chest—nothing sharp, just a thin sense of wrongness beneath his otherwise calm demeanor. He didn’t know why it bothered him so much. It was just a vending machine. If the hotel wanted to get rid of it, no one really would care. But there was something about it, about the way Jeremy had phrased it.

It's gone.

It was probably nothing. Maintenance had probably taken it to get it repaired. He could ask them in the morning.

Still—

Maybe it would be better to just check.

Graham hesitated, his gaze fixed to the end of the hallway.

And then, before he could think better of it, he set the mop against the wall and started moving in that direction. He walked past the elevators, his footsteps echoing as he crossed the corridor.

The south hallway was a mirror image of the one he had been cleaning. As he reached it, he turned to scan the rows of apartment doors. The brass numbers on each of them gleamed, the dark wood polished. Everything in this part of the hotel was still. Quiet. The hallway dead-ended into a wall, just as it did at the east end, where the elevators were. No windows. No emergency exits. Nothing but blank, unbroken concrete.

But when he looked left, past the rows of rooms, he could see the other end of the hallway. It curved, leading him toward the opposite end of the building. And at the end of the hall, past the curve, a soft blue glow was illuminating the otherwise darkened corner from the space where the vending machine used to be.

Graham's brow furrowed.

What the hell?

The vending machine would have been set back in an alcove. It was a big, heavy thing—thick plastic casing and wide metal coils holding rows of snacks in place. A faded sign above the alcove often greeted visitors who strayed too far from the elevators, with the message: WELCOME TO THE PINNACLE HOTEL. MORE SNACKS: ONE FLOOR DOWN.

Graham walked slowly, his eyes fixed on the soft blueish glow. When he got to where the light was coming from, he stopped.

The machine was in fact gone.

He stepped into the alcove. A few pieces of trash littered the ground. Some empty water bottles, a few stray receipts. But no sign of the vending machine. No scratches along the floor or gouges in the wall. No marks, no dents. Nothing.

"Weird," Graham said aloud.

However, where the vending machine should have been, there was now a faint outline of a door on the wall.

He hadn't noticed it at first—the wall was unbroken, and the light was dim. But now that he was closer, he could make out the subtle difference. A thin outline. The light was emanating from within it, from the other side, shining through the edges of the door's frame. The flicker of unease curled tighter, twisting low in his stomach.

This was impossible. There was no door here as far as he knew. It had always been a dead end. Just a wall.

The feeling of dread in his chest grew.

A maintenance closet, perhaps? A break room? A panic room?

All reasonable explanations.

But why hadn't he seen it before?

Graham crossed his arms and tried to find a logical explanation. Well, perhaps it was because there had been a vending machine there before. A big, clunky thing that filled the entire space. Maybe the door had in fact been there this entire time, just out of sight.

Graham reached out, running his fingers over the smooth surface of the door's frame.

The metal was cool to the touch, and his fingertips left tiny prints in the frame that coated the door. It was covered in some kind of thick, glossy varnish. It reminded him of the stuff people used to seal furniture.

His thumb slid along the metal frame and he felt an indentation—a button of some kind. It felt heavy to push, but it clicked softly as he pressed down.

A faint whirring sound emanated from within the wall.

The wall began to split, the seam between the halves becoming visible as a pale light flickered on. Graham pulled his hand back, and the gap widened, the panels sliding apart. Almost as if the entire wall had been built out of a million tiny tiles, now shifting in concert to reveal an opening.

The light on the other side spilled through, filling the alcove. A bright, blinding white illuminating the hallway around him. And a strange, hollow quiet filled his ears.

Graham squinted, shading his eyes with one hand. When he lowered his arm, he froze, his breath caught in his throat.

The space inside was impossibly vast, a cavernous room far beyond what could fit behind a single door in a hotel. The ceiling rose high above him, the walls stretching away several hundred feet high.

"What...?"

The words left his mouth before he could stop them.

His pulse began to climb as his eyes darted across the polished floors, the glowing hexagonal lights overhead. It felt like reality had torn open, leaving him somewhere that shouldn’t exist. Graham had a strange, sudden sense of vertigo, as though he was standing on a precipice. A deep, aching loneliness clawed its way up from inside his chest, a sudden need to turn and leave, to walk away from this place, to go back and pretend he had never seen it.

The door he had opened had accessed a large mall. That's the best way he could describe it. The floor was white, and the walls were the color of bleached bone. He took a hesitant step forward, and the lights shifted, changing the hue from bright white to a dim, golden yellow. There were no signs or maps or anything at all that might indicate what this place was. Had he walked into a movie set by accident?

In the center of the room, there was a long, oval counter that looked like an information desk. Behind it were rows of hovering holographic screens, each showing the image of a different person. Some were talking, others were laughing. Some were crying. And others were staring silently at the camera, their expressions unreadable.

Graham turned to see what was at the sides of the door he had just stepped out of. A young couple, both probably in their early twenties, were talking nearby in a language he could not understand. They looked at him for a brief moment, shocked by his sudden arrival. He tried to speak to them, to ask them about the door, but they only chuckled and walked away.

Whatever place this was, it was built to catch the eye. There was a tall, narrow fountain on one side of the room, with a wide stone base and a thin spout of water that rose into the air. A statue of a woman stood atop the fountain, a long gown made of polished bronze, her arms stretched out, palms up, as if waiting for something.

Around the edge of the fountain were dozens of white marble benches, and there was a row of what appeared to be holographic newspaper dispensers next to each one. Graham couldn't read any of the news feeds. But the images were in color, and the words seemed to hover a few inches from the screen.

Graham looked back, checking the space behind him. The alcove and hallway he had just emerged from were still there. The hotel with its apartment doors, thick fluorescent lights, and the mop he had abandoned around the corner. It was all still there.

This is a dream, he thought. Am I dreaming?

A thousand questions ran through Graham's mind, all of them competing for his attention.

People moved around him, dressed in strange clothing. He didn't recognize the style—the shirts and pants, the shoes and hairstyles, none of it felt recognizable. The people themselves seemed to be from all walks of life and nationalities. Asian, Indian, white, black, their skin and hair and eyes and clothing a blur of different colors and cultures and styles.

And they all, somehow, seemed to belong here.

But not him.

He took a few tentative steps forward. The floor beneath his feet was cool and smooth—polished stone, maybe. Hexagonal light panels stretched across the ceiling in a honeycomb pattern, casting a soft bluish glow. The place felt sterile but not lifeless. Functional. Like a train station, or an airport terminal.

The ceiling stretched high overhead. Graham could just make out the curved underside of some sort of roof. Glass or metal—he wasn't sure.

A group of people passed nearby—a woman in a flowing green dress, a man in a dark suit with a child holding his hand. Graham’s gaze followed them as they approached one of the doors set into the far wall. The child pointed at the screen above it—an image of a sunlit beach flickering across the surface—and then the door slid open with a soft hiss. They stepped through, and the door closed behind them.

The more bizarre thing happened after it had closed. The monitor above it showed the man and the child arriving on the beach. The little boy kicked up a small bit of sand as they stepped onto the shore, the man trailing behind him. They laughed, and the man picked the boy up, spinning him around in a circle.

Graham blinked. The image on the screen changed and now the two were sitting on the beach, the little boy digging a hole in the sand, the man leaning back on his hands, his head tilted back toward the sun.

He stared at the screen for a moment longer, trying to process what he was seeing. Then he tore his eyes away, looking around the space again.

More people moved to and from the doors in orderly lines. They were departing and arriving, just like in an airport terminal. A pair of teenagers with backpacks slung over their shoulders stood near a long row of white benches, talking in low, quick bursts of different dialects. An older couple approached one of the doors at the far end of the room, hesitated, then turned back. A small child tugged at his mother’s sleeve while the mother adjusted the strap of a bag slung across her shoulder.

There were no signs directing people to gates or baggage claims, no announcements blaring overhead. And the doors… none of them were marked. No flight numbers. No destinations. Graham turned toward the row of screens above the doors. The images flicked between landscapes—cities, deserts, mountains, oceans. Some places looked familiar, others utterly alien. One screen showed the bright sprawl of a city skyline beneath a deep red sky. Another displayed a froze landscape with a city skyline beneath swirling green auroras. Another showed nothing but stars.

None of this made sense.

He took a cautious step toward one of the doors, watching as a group of people disappeared through it. He hesitated, then approached a man standing near the glass railing overlooking another level below. He had a gray beard, a balding head, and wore a plain gray tribon. He looked almost like Socrates.

Graham paused. “Excuse me,” his voice came out hoarse. “Could you tell me...where I am?”

He realized the question might seem absurd. However, he didn't know what else to say to get straight to the point.

The man glanced at him and frowned.

“Sorry,” Graham tried again, more clearly this time. He raised his hand to show he meant to be friendly. “Do you speak English?”

The man’s expression tightened. He said something low and clipped in a language that sounded almost like Greek.

“I… I don’t understand.” Graham frowned.

The man sighed and walked away, shaking his head, leaving him alone and confused.

His heart was racing now, his palms slick with sweat.

There was no way this was an extension of the hotel. That would defy the laws of physics. The scale of this place was enormous, simply too big to be part of the building he worked at.

Graham rubbed the back of his neck. He groaned, scanning the vast concourse again. He could try someone else. His eyes searched for anyone who looked approachable or friendly. He spotted a young woman seated on one of the white benches, scrolling through a thin glass tablet with holograms orbiting around it. He stepped toward her.

“Hey,” he said, raising a hand. “Do you speak—”

The woman lifted her gaze. Her eyes narrowed slightly. She said something sharp and fast in the same unfamiliar language as the previous man and then stood, walking away without looking back.

Graham exhaled slowly.

It seemed no one was in the mood to talk.

It was like he’d walked into a foreign country where not only the language but the entire culture was different.

His shoulders tensed. He needed to get back. The night crew would notice if he was gone too long. Amy might wonder where he was. He didn't want to get fired. He turned back toward the direction of his door.

And then he felt it—that prickle on the back of his neck. Like he was being watched.

He turned around. Across the room, a man was walking toward him. Tall and broad-shouldered, wearing dark armor-like clothing with a red and gold sash across his chest. His boots made a dull, heavy sound against the stone floor. His expression was calm but focused, eyes locked on him.

Graham's instinct was to step back, but his feet remained rooted to the floor. The man came to a stop a few feet in front of him and said something in the same clipped language as the others. His tone was low and steady—more professional than hostile—but Graham could feel the weight of scrutiny in the man's stare.

“I… don’t understand,” Graham said. “I—”

The man’s gaze flicked over Graham’s clothes—blue slacks, gray work shirt, sneakers. He spoke again, this time with a slight edge. His hand drifted toward something at his hip—a sleek, black cylinder strapped to his belt. A weapon?

Graham raised his hands. “Look, I'm sorry, I don't know where I am. If I'm not supposed to be here, then—”

The man’s brow furrowed slightly. He spoke into a small device affixed to his wrist. A second later, two more figures emerged from a side corridor, dressed in matching uniforms. The first man said something, and the others flanked Graham’s sides.

“Okay,” Graham muttered, his heart thudding against his ribs. “Okay, I don't want any trouble. I’ll come with you.”

The first guard motioned toward a side corridor. Graham’s legs felt stiff as he followed. The hallway was narrower than the main floor, with smooth gray walls and dim, recessed lights along the floor. His footsteps echoed off the hard surface. They passed several closed doors. Graham tried to steady his breathing. His eyes darted between the two guards flanking him.

If I run, I could probably make it to one of those doors, Graham thought. Maybe one of them leads outside.

Then again, in his mind, he was somehow still on the fifth floor of a luxury hotel in Dallas. The guard glanced back at him and said something that ended with a word that sounded almost like Tu casa. Spanish?

He had no idea what the man was saying or where he was being led. But the tension in the air told him this was a bad situation, and getting worse.

At the end of the corridor, the first guard pressed his palm to a panel on the wall. The door slid open with a soft hiss.

Inside was a small, circular room with transparent walls and a single glass pedestal in the center. Resting on the pedestal was an object that resembled a bronze helmet. Sleek and polished, with faint lines of blue light tracing across its surface. It reminded Graham of a Roman centurion’s helmet—if that helmet had been designed by Apple.

The guard gestured toward the chair positioned in front of the pedestal.

Graham shook his head. “Wait—”

The guard’s tone sharpened as he repeated the command. He didn’t raise his voice, but the weight behind it made Graham’s skin crawl.

The guards closed in, gripping him by the arms.

"Hey! You can't just—get off me!"

They forced him down on to the metal chair, hands on his shoulders.

The main guard stepped toward the pedestal and touched the sides of the helmet. The blue light brightened. Graham squinted as the helmet began to emit a low, thrumming hum.

“Wait a second,” Graham said. “What are you—”

The helmet lifted from the pedestal, floating into the air. The hum deepened. A thin beam of light shot from the center of the helmet, striking Graham’s forehead. He flinched, but the light didn’t hurt. It was cold—cold and sharp, cutting into the back of his skull. His vision swam. Images flashed behind his eyes—faces, symbols, landscapes. Language. Information. It poured into his mind in a rapid blur. His breathing quickened. He felt like he was falling.

And then—

It all came to a halt.

Graham gasped, his chest heaving. His vision slowly sharpened. The helmet lowered back onto the pedestal.

The guard in front of him stepped forward. “Hello. Can you understand me?”

Graham’s heart hammered in his chest. He stared at the man.

“Yes, I—how—”

“You’ve been calibrated,” the guard said. His expression softened slightly. “My name is Tenlen.”

Graham swallowed hard. “What... is happening?”

Tenlen’s gaze remained steady. “Please try to relax. You’re in a place known as the Prime Nexus.”

There was a sincerity behind the words that Graham didn't expect. He didn't think that this person was lying to him, but that didn't make the situation any less bizarre.

"I don't understand," Graham said.

"Your world," Tenlen continued, "is connected to this one. You came through one of our Terminals. We're not entirely sure how yet, but we're investigating that."

A cold weight settled in Graham’s stomach. “Look, I'd like to go home now.”

“You weren’t supposed to see the door,” Tenlen explained in a matter-of-fact tone. "When you entered the Terminal boarding area, the system flagged you. It triggered a security alert. My men responded and brought you here for processing."

Graham stared at him. He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

Tenlen tilted his head slightly.

"You're serious." Graham took a breath, his pulse still pounding in his ears. "I'm sorry but, this is a prank, right? Am I on some sort of reality show?"

Tenlen blinked. "A reality show?"

"You're trying to see how long I'll go along with this, right? How much you can get me to believe. Like that one show where they took those people to the desert and made them believe they were being abducted by aliens. What was it called? It was—oh right! Scare Tactics!"

"I assure you," Tenlen said, "this is not a prank."

Graham let out a nervous laugh. "Yeah, okay."

"I realize this must be difficult to accept," Tenlen continued. "But the reality is, we have a lot of questions for you. And I'm hoping that with your help, we can figure out why you're here and how you managed to travel between your world and ours."

He stepped toward the pedestal and touched a small control panel at the base. A circular ring of light pulsed across the glass floor beneath them, sending a soft vibration through Graham’s feet. The entire room became illuminated from within.

The room seemed to tilt slightly as what seemed like three-dimensional star charts floated up through the floor and then drifted and changed shapes in the air around him.

"The multiverse has many clusters," Tenlen said. "Ours is one of various nexus points. It connects thousands of other worlds together. Like the trunk of a tree."

Graham stared at the images as they spun around him. His thoughts felt cloudy, his head spinning.

"These are gateways," Tenlen continued, marking several dots on the roots that branched off from the center of the image. "Each gateway opens up into a different dimension, a different timeline. There are billions. And each has its own version of Earth. In most cases, they are quite similar. Sometimes they are vastly different. But always, they exist. Always, they are part of the multiverse. The question is, how did you end up in our cluster?"

"I'm sorry," Graham said, rubbing his temple. "This isn't possible. None of this is real. It can't be."

"Graham," Tenlen's voice was calm. "I understand how confusing this is, but please, listen carefully. You are here. This is real. And if we can determine why and how you got here, then after we can help you get home."

The room shifted again, and new images appeared, floating through the air around him. Some were planets, some were suns, some were clusters of stars. Then the image zoomed into a planet that looked like Earth. The perspective changed to an orbit of the planet, with land masses scattered about. A few looked vaguely familiar—Graham could make out the rough shape of the United States, the outline of Australia, and the faint shape of North and South America.
It was a map of where he was from, at least that's what he understood.

"This is your Earth," Tenlen said, pointing at a small green dot on one of the branches extending from the Nexus point. He then traced the branch down to the center, the main root. "We are here. This is the Prime Nexus. As you can see, we are not so far away from each other."

Graham watched the image shift again, the perspective changing. Suddenly he was inside the planet, looking down at a vast ocean.

"You're experiencing a mild form of shock," Tenlen explained. "I need you to breathe, and try to stay calm. If you can do that, I can show you some things that might help." The image shifted, focusing on a series of three-dimensional shapes with blinking dots at the start of each branch, glowing green and blue.

"My people, the Theans, were born on this Nexus point, and have since grown to occupy a large portion of this cluster. Other worlds, such as yours, are much more primitive than our world, and therefore are not as developed. From our estimates, we are about ten thousand years ahead of your current level of technology. That's not to say there isn't a great deal you could teach us, or vice versa."

One of the charts floated closer. Graham's brow furrowed as he scanned the map.

"This is our sector."

"I'm sorry, I'm just a little confused," Graham winced. "Are you saying I'm not on Earth?"

"You're not."

“That’s…” Graham rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. He laughed again, a nervous edge creeping into his voice. "Okay."

Tenlen's expression didn't change.

"We built the Terminals to connect the various nodes in our cluster. It's a process called Quantum Dislocation. We build this place in order to allow travelers to migrate."

"Travelers."

"Yes."

"To other... dimensions?"

"Yes."

Graham exhaled. He was trying not to sound crazy. Trying not to laugh. Trying not to cry. He wasn't sure which one he wanted to do the most.

"Okay, so let me see if I have this straight," Graham said, trying to hold it together but on the verge of a nervous breakdown. "There are... other universes. And some of them can be reached through these... doors."

"Correct."

"And somehow I stumbled onto one of these doors?"

"Yes."

"Okay." Graham ran a hand over his face. "And I can't just go back through that door again, back to my... Earth?"

Tenlen gave a short sigh. His jaw tightened. “Unfortunately, it's not so simple. There was an incident. Three days ago, the Nexus was attacked by a rogue faction known as the Srin. They attempted to breach several of our nodes. Some of the Terminals malfunctioned as a result. It’s likely that the disruption caused the security protocols in your Terminal to drop temporarily—making it visible to you. And we don't know what other damage it may have caused. For now, we are attempting repairs before we send you through. We need to make sure it remains dormant before you are allowed to go back.”

"Dormant," Graham repeated. "As in... no one will be able to see it?"

"Correct."

Tenlen’s gaze remained calm. “To most people in your world, the concept of multiple realities is theoretical. To us, it’s infrastructure. We allow controlled passage between realities through these Terminals—like the one you found. Each Terminal connects to a specific reality within a larger cluster. The Federation of Core Realities monitors and regulates the use of these Terminals. They have determined that for any node we visit, such as your world for example, that the people there don't know that we exist or that the Terminals exist. It's a matter of avoiding cultural contamination.”

Graham blinked, shaking his head. His mind was reeling, his thoughts a muddled blur.

"You've had a long day," Tenlen said. "Get some rest. We'll investigate the situation that caused your entry, and figure out how best to return you home. Until then, you're a guest here."

He paused, as if sensing Graham's confusion.

"I know it's a lot to take in. But you're safe now. I'll have one of the staff bring you to a guest suite."

Tenlen stepped away from the pedestal and turned toward the door. The light from the glass walls shimmered faintly across his uniform as he paused, then looked back at Graham. His expression remained unreadable—calm, composed, but not unkind.

“Follow me,” he said.

Graham hesitated for only a moment. Then, with a quiet breath, he stood and followed Tenlen out of the room.