Chapter Text
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Earth 455. Expedition Order # 087.
Day 15 of expedition.
…
This world has a lot to offer in the way of mundane problems. Conveniently, Micah had seen it all firsthand while working his debt off at an inn. In a castle town, no less; this is what the best have to offer to the best. He wonders what 455’s Micah got up to before he got here– the debt was from property he apparently broke, but the place didn’t lack any supplies or have anything wrong with the rooms. Something must’ve gone really wrong.
455 appears more prosperous than Micah’s own world in some ways, and less in others. For one, he’s not sure he would call this an inn. Maybe, an outpost? A rest stop?
A towering manse at the top of a hill, The Green Locust was homey and well-fixed. It didn’t cut corners, but it didn’t cater to guests’ every whim. It didn’t see too many vacationing nobles, instead providing the upper class with somewhere to stay after dark. A lot of soldiers came through. A few even had firearms; Micah took notes after one young man indulged his question at length. Kole was his name. He was the only guest to do so.
This is the fifth or sixth time Micah’s heard that name. He wonders when they’ll meet. By his own observations, the more often he sees someone in his own life, the more likely he is to see them across worlds. He wonders how many times he’s walked past Kole day-to-day.
The inn’s kitchen made a four-item menu each day. It definitely made it simpler to run the place, and it had to be simple because customers needed attention. They had injuries to be tended to, or even supplies and repairs. In the two weeks he’s been here, he’s spent more time running to smiths and stores than he did cooking or serving. A couple checked in and one of them was unconscious. It was clearly par for the course, as Micah heard them discussing a “battle” while he served the man tea the next morning.
Curious as he is, that’s all over now. He was deployed for a surface-level survey, short-term, gaining intel on the weaponry and military technology of this world. He’s sure they’ll send him back for a case study soon. Early that morning, Micah set off back to where he came from.
He left east of the town along a downward slope paved with stone bricks. A chill had settled overnight. It seeps into his dark bronze skin. The days were getting shorter, and it was so high up. He’d hate to be here in the winter.
The scent of leaves and petrichor wafted off the ground and mingled in the air. It put Micah at ease. Part of him would miss this place. Maybe he’d have another expedition someday, but he had to find the portal for now. Hopefully the few artifacts he’s taken with him will be of good use back home.
…
Unknown. Expedition Order # 087
Day 15?
…
The portal hadn’t taken him home this time.
Or to the network. This place wasn’t familiar to Micah at all.
Was he supposed to know about this? Surely there’s an explanation. He can’t panic now, it won’t help– he just needs to think. Maybe this got brought up in one of his prerequisite courses. Maybe it was an edge case he was tested on once or twice? He can’t recall any one case of a portal changing destinations all of a sudden.
At least it’s warm in here. The portals all give off heat, so maybe he is back at the terminal after all. But the room is so dark, that can’t be right.
Micah’s hands fumble through his bag until they grasp a metal piece, small and cold, connected by a chain to a sharper piece. If he had some wood now, he could light his way—
Just then, the room begins to grow bright. Did someone else just light a flame, too? A hand shields Micah’s face and he looks up to greet whoever has come to his rescue.
Their eyes meet.
His heart pounds heavy as lead in his chest cavity.
Before him stands a tall youth clad in armor. Umber skin stippled with gold freckles, big round eyes of gold. A four-pointed star is painted between their eyes. Maybe it’s some kind of birthmark. Their hair is straighter than Micah’s and far longer. He’d be the shorter of them if he stood up.
There isn’t a torch or lantern in sight. They seem to be glowing, they are the light.
One gloved hand beckons him upwards. It’s pristine, they’re pristine. They’re dressed like they’re ready for work, ready to fight, but there isn’t a spot of dust on their shining armor. Micah finds himself in awe at the state, images of nacre and pearl and amethyst and ivory flashing through his mind.
The faintest of hums leaves the knight’s throat as Micah takes their hand and pulls himself standing. Questions dart through his mind, each new one gone in an instant. Like trying to grab smoke. His skull is swarmed with them, overwhelmed, packed with sand and short of air. Is there air here?
The earth stops tilting. His blood stops rushing hot under his skin. Micah looks up again, hands balling into fists, a futile attempt to quell his anxiety.
“Hello?” He croaks at last.
Head shaking, they do not grace him with an answer. Their thumb points behind them before they present their palms to him again, one gloved and one in a gauntlet.
Something changes in the air. Is there air here? Micah’s hair stands on end, heart halting in his chest as if about to stop.
A wave of vigor crashes over him at the last second. As he savored the pre-dawn chill moments ago, so does he now revel in the vitality slipping around him. All at once Micah is released from his fear. His muscles stop trembling, his heart beats steady, there is air here.
The stranger sings a chime of inquiry, head tilting as they watch him. At ease, Micah smiles at them. They beam.
Their thumb points behind them. With his newfound strength, Micah steps closer and looks over their shoulder at what could be there. The next corridor is dark, so much so he couldn’t see anything more than six inches in front of him.
At last it occurs to him to ask the stranger for directions, but when he looks at them again, the words die in his throat, radiant features giving him pause. Pale, luminous hair. Glittering freckles. Eyes like the sun. Where are they from where people look like that? Who is this and where is he?
Obviously more lucid than himself, the knight turns on their heel. Micah’s lost his chance to ask. Maybe for the better.
The two start down the hall together. He almost has to jog to keep up with their long strides– Micah’s almost six feet himself. They really are tall.
It’s gotten warm again. Micah’s pulse picks up. They continue at the same pace— no, they’ve sped up. So has he.
They’re moving the same as before, Micah observes, and yet the halls fly past them. Great pillars and ornate statues and tall doors disappear behind them faster than they appeared. He almost isn’t sure he can keep up, but they don’t intend to leave him behind.
The knight stops so abruptly that Micah almost slams into their back. It would be less than fun to hit that armor at this speed, to say the least. When he looks up, they’re pointing at the space before them.
A portal stands there, already lit. The gateway scrolls along, rushing like water in a stream. Their destination, his destination.
Smiling down at Micah, the stranger nudges his shoulder.
“I’m supposed to go in there?” His voice sounds hoarse, like he was screaming or just woke up. He hadn’t considered that yet. Is he dreaming?
They answer only with a nod.
“I can, go home in there?” Micah stammers again, doubtful.
Another nod. How do they know, he wonders?
The sound of his steps echoes off of the walls as he walks forward. Heart pounding, Micah stops just short of the portal, deliberating for a long time before…
“Who are you?” He looks over his shoulder at the knight.
They don’t answer, much to his chagrin. If they can understand him, then–?
“Who are you?” He demands again, his voice much clearer than earlier. “Where am I?”
A single hand rises until it’s level with their eyes. They give it a shake, a lazy wave goodbye. It’s irritating, not satisfying, it’s not even what he asked for.
“Please?” He tries again, quickly growing exasperated. “I’d like to know who I’m speaking w– who I have the honor of–”
Their cape drapes across the floor and their tall boots clang against it as they settle into a deep kneel. Head bowed, their pearlescent light halos off of their pauldrons.
“…”
After another thoughtful pause, Micah takes a knee himself, hands at his sides and head bowed. His satchel nearly sabotages his balance. Hopefully, such a salute is sufficient in giving them his gratitude. Whoever they are.
Micah looks up. They still haven’t.
They’ll be here all day if he waits any longer.
“Thank you!” Micah yells over the whirling of the portal. It ripples as he steps in.
…
Micah's home, Poppybrook.
June 2nd.
...
He couldn’t forget that day if he wanted to. He can still feel it all the time, a second wind, brio bursting forth like an engine starting. Off he goes, getting a head start on whatever. He feels brand new.
Micah loathes the day it wears off. It’s more than likely some weird case of jet lag, or maybe his system's out of whack after adjusting to another world. The symptoms are surprisingly lenient this time around, but they have their drawbacks.
Like this morning. Micah sits on the terrace floor to get to work– not work, not really. He hasn’t been called back to the studio yet. It’s humid this morning, nice and warm. The sun’s hardly up. Twelve hours from now he’ll crash and make the mistake of a “quick” six-hour nap, and after that he’ll do it all again. It's just tedious enough to make him to pick up a cure at a pharmacy. It hasn't been working.
“Micah?” A voice rasps from inside.
Micah doesn't look up when he answers. “Morning.”
Lynette shuffles forward, leaning against the terrace door. She squints down at him, amazed at his undertaking of a new task so early in the morning.
The silence is long. A gust of wind rushes past, rustling leaves and carrying that sound up to the two of them. The floor creaks as she pads closer until she’s kneeling beside him.
Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Lynette takes a long look at Micah. Then at his book, a sketchpad of plain paper. Back to him.
“Are you okay?” She asks finally.
“M’fine.”
“Are you… sure?”
“Why do you ask?”
Her brow pinches just slightly. “Do you know what time it is?” Lynette asks, a weary lilt to her voice.
“Five?” Micah guesses, still not having looked at her.
“Four-forty-something.”
“Okay? I don’t know.” He grumbles, already bothered by her nagging. “I’m up. So what?”
“Micah, are you okay?” She asks again.
He suppresses the urge to roll his eyes and turns back to his sketch pad. “I’m doing great.”
Lynette’s gaze follows his. She narrows her eyes at the paper next, leaning forward to see it. “Want me to get your glasses?” Micah offers.
She hums a soft “mm-mm” as she shakes her head. “Who is that?” Lynette clears her throat to ask.
He balks at the question. “... A star, I guess.”
“What?”
“I, don’t know.”
Whatever that means?
“...Is this from the expedition?” Lynette tries instead.
“Not really.” Micah mumbles back, a hand scratching at his chin. “It kinda went left, I had to find my way back. Has that ever happened?”
“Of course it’s happened.” She nods, straining to see the sketch. “I guess it didn’t take long, if they didn’t send someone to recover you?”
“No, I don’t think they… Um. They usually tell you when they’re rescuing you though, right?”
Lynette makes a noise just a bit weaker than a laugh. “Did they not tell you?” She asks. “That you were being rescued?”
“They didn’t tell me anything.”
“Not their name?”
“I’ve been calling them Polaris.”