You didn’t think a record would be so insane. But no one expects that. So when you put on the old 60s record, the guitar plucking and drums lightly thumping through the floor, you laid down and closed your eyes, like you always did. The room, suddenly, felt like it was spinning. Slowly, like a record, but enough to be noticed. It was both soothing, and slightly unnerving. Unnerving took over, however, when it sped up. The record sounded distorted and warped, like it was echoing off the walls. But the echo itself suggested the walls weren’t the same. They were very different. Almost like the ceiling was gone.*

Once you force your eyes open, you gasp. You’re not home. At all. You’re in an alleyway, made of red bricks and grey pavement under you. A small bit of trash sits in the corner by your head. Sunset paints the streets with an orange tint, making the world look like a vintage photograph. And straight in front of you, out the alley, is a huge crowd, marching through the street. Kate Bush rings through the streets, a war cry of a million voices. Most with British accents, you notice. But someone notices you. A woman stops by the edge of the crowd. She’s dressed in all black, flowing from head to toe. The belt on her pants and bow on her back swish behind her as the crowd passes by. She holds a paper sign taped onto a ruler that says “Ballots, not Bombs” Her eyes narrow in confusion before they widen, and she kicks into action. She turns for a moment, giving another woman her sign, before turning and walking towards you. Her long blonde hair bounces as she trots towards you. Her skin is pale, and so are her eyes, which are full of concern.

“Hey, man? You alright?” She asks. Her accent is also British, but gentle, with a musical lilt to it. She bends down slightly, but you can still tell she’s incredibly tall.