The TV flickers like it’s thinking too hard. Neon cult robes, static, that eerie glow from Cracker Island—everything feels just slightly off, like reality forgot a line of code.
Then the screen… warps.
Not breaks. Not glitches.
It bends.
They hit the floor in a chaotic pile of limbs, fabric, and confusion.
Murdoc Niccals lands first, face-planting hard before immediately scrambling up like a gremlin defending its dignity. “WHO MESSED WITH MY PORTAL—” he spins, eyes wild, then pauses. “…Why does it smell like… normal human sadness in here?”
2-D stumbles upright next, blinking slowly. His pupils glow faintly, still holding onto that eerie music video energy. “…Murdoc,” he mumbles, voice soft and confused, “I think we fell out the telly.”
He gently pats the wall. Like it might respond.
It does not.
Russel Hobbs pushes himself up last, towering over the others. He looks around once. Twice.
He doesn’t panic.
That’s somehow worse.
“…This ain’t a stage,” he says lowly. “No cameras. No crew.”
His eyes flick to the TV.
The screen is now just static.
Silent.
From the floor, Noodle rolls smoothly to her feet, already alert. Her posture sharpens like a switch flipped.
“…We crossed over,” she says, calm but focused.
Murdoc scoffs. “Oh yeah? And what gave that away, genius? The dimension-hopping or the complete lack of adoring fans?”
Noodle ignores him.
She steps closer to the TV, crouching, studying the glass like it might bite.
“…It’s closed now.”
Murdoc grabs the TV, shaking it aggressively.
“OPEN BACK UP, YOU CHEAP ELECTRIC BOX—DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?!”
Nothing.
Just static.