[i][b]—— Ximbic-8: Tuscré, the Fae Fields [/b][/i]

Portal light etches its way through Czes’ bestial extra-armor and into his eyes, blinding him during his superluminal transit. Though he cannot see, his journey is of no lessened intensity. Goosebumps distort his skin, his hackles rise, and his breath catches in his throat. Without warning, he is falling, spiraling, dying, yet so rife with life and expectation that, rather than dread, his soul swells with wonder. The stimuli calms — he is at peace. Cool grass traces the backs of his bare arms while alien branches sway a gentle frame around the violet-tinged night sky creeping above. Motes of amber and fuchsia drift above him, quite akin to disturbed dander or milkweed seeds. Through it, he can make out Earth; a small blue dot, the size of his thumbnail. Something is missing, he realizes: his defense, his armor, his exo-skeletal beastframe, worth billions of dollars back on his now-abandoned home world, rejected utterly by this place.

Yet it let him enter in.

[i]Guess I’m not evil after all. Maybe ... maybe I just don’t need it anymore.[/i]

He sighs, and it is like the demon straddling his chest for the last four centuries is gone. 

On the back of his hand, a glow, both in light and in warmth, distracts him. 

[i]“Constellation of a baby jaguar sound asleep beneath a shooting star, morphing into a Möbius strip and back,”[/i] he chuckles, then drops his hand down on the comfortable blanket of grass, [i]“Sanguine, shimmering, blood. Apt. Sleep sounds good. A truly peaceful sleep, for the first time in forever.”[/i]

He nods off, alone but not lonely, bathed in the light of opalescent night.

[center][b]… Ϟ[/b][/center]

[i][b]—— Earth-F67X: North Capital City: Flatiron[/b][/i]

When Dom turned the corner of Fifth and 19th, at the foot of the old 115 building, the sky was beginning to dim, which meant very little in such a city of neon night. What struck him was the garish glint of the Empire State Building so distant, yet so bright. Nearer, though, were a slew of run-down diners, salons, and dive bars. Mixed residential, not his thing. A slum, hidden from the light of day by the almost incomprehensible bulk of the Canopy — a behemoth superstructure that made him think of that pre-unification movie, Independence Day. Neither conformed to his preference of a clean and orderly barracks.

Almost immediately, he saw the Azot. 

His first reaction, to his chagrin, was smiling. The Azot was in the midst of a one-handed handstand whilst balancing a frisbee on its tail tip. A performing monkey in a dirt-stained little Ronald McDonald costume, green of fur rather than the typical black or brown found to Earth. Same as the color infiltrating clothing design these days, skobeloff. He planned to buy Vesca a scarf in that color. 

[i]Get a grip, Dom. You’re here because that alien trash is taking business away from the people and animals that belong on this planet.[/i]

He leaned against the brick facade of a building and observed. The crowd seemed pleased, a few creds thrown in the Azot’s pot. Odd, really. Physical money, still a thing? Then it hit him, all of these people were dirt poor. Their coins were probably ancient, found in la-z-boy cushions and between the pages of old books. Everyone here was.