The Crossroads suck. He knew this already, having already experienced some of its bullshittery before and really dreading having to go back. But back they've gone. So of course it goes wrong.
It just happens to go wrong in the most spectacular and terrifying way possible.
The ground is hard as rock, and his shield only takes so much of the force. But when the air comes back to his lungs after it being forced out, the rest of the situation starts to come into focus. It is loud. There is so much noise, of people talking, of metal, of high pitched sounds wailing high and low in the distance, of sharp and loud barks of noise like a note of an angry trumpeter. The odd mix of smells like startled skunk and smoke, but also cooking food, but also things more acrid. The light. Maker's breath, the lights. It's dark, the sun having set, but amongst the--buildings, they must be, tall, taller, taller still, stone and brick but also gleaming with glass, lights as bright as daytime, as fire, as lightning. Words on signs, lit storefronts, lights from the metal boxes around them like very low carriages, moving images dancing across the sides of buildings in a manner he thinks he has heard described once or twice before but never could quite imagine.
Mobius has thankfully never had a fight first, as questions later kind of attitude. He doesn't know where the hell he is, but these people are just people, as startled at the arrival as the group is of arriving. And he doesn't know what they're doing with the little glass boxes, but, look, someone should know what this is. Somewhere. Anyone.
He rolls to his feet, slowly, disoriented. "Hi," eventually, when he thinks the world isn't spinning out of control quite so fast anymore, "sorry for dropping in. Uh." There don't seem to be any demons to fight. At least not immediately. So it's not a normal rift. "Can someone tell us where we are?"
Someone--and they all seem to be human as far as he can tell--looks around, looks at the group, and shrugs. "New York." And then amends, "Earth?" And then, "Twenty-twe--" whatever the number is seems to distort or garble or simply get drowned out by the city noise, but Mobius is pretty sure it wouldn't help anyway.
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It just happens to go wrong in the most spectacular and terrifying way possible.
The ground is hard as rock, and his shield only takes so much of the force. But when the air comes back to his lungs after it being forced out, the rest of the situation starts to come into focus. It is loud. There is so much noise, of people talking, of metal, of high pitched sounds wailing high and low in the distance, of sharp and loud barks of noise like a note of an angry trumpeter. The odd mix of smells like startled skunk and smoke, but also cooking food, but also things more acrid. The light. Maker's breath, the lights. It's dark, the sun having set, but amongst the--buildings, they must be, tall, taller, taller still, stone and brick but also gleaming with glass, lights as bright as daytime, as fire, as lightning. Words on signs, lit storefronts, lights from the metal boxes around them like very low carriages, moving images dancing across the sides of buildings in a manner he thinks he has heard described once or twice before but never could quite imagine.
Mobius has thankfully never had a fight first, as questions later kind of attitude. He doesn't know where the hell he is, but these people are just people, as startled at the arrival as the group is of arriving. And he doesn't know what they're doing with the little glass boxes, but, look, someone should know what this is. Somewhere. Anyone.
He rolls to his feet, slowly, disoriented. "Hi," eventually, when he thinks the world isn't spinning out of control quite so fast anymore, "sorry for dropping in. Uh." There don't seem to be any demons to fight. At least not immediately. So it's not a normal rift. "Can someone tell us where we are?"
Someone--and they all seem to be human as far as he can tell--looks around, looks at the group, and shrugs. "New York." And then amends, "Earth?" And then, "Twenty-twe--" whatever the number is seems to distort or garble or simply get drowned out by the city noise, but Mobius is pretty sure it wouldn't help anyway.