connecticut_yankee

Hank wakes up.

Of all the usual results of a blow to the head, this one probably isn’t even in the top four. One minute a misunderstanding with a crowbar and a man called Hercules—in retrospect that should have been a warning sign—the next…something else.

This isn’t the Colt Arms Factory, and it isn’t even Hartford. He’s in the middle of a ravine he’s never seen before. Must be a practical joke by someone who’s about to be unemployed. He groans, pushes himself to his feet, and works his way up the nearest slope. On second thought, this is less of a practical joke and more of a dream. The half-clockwork dog would be decidedly impractical to fake, and the enormous bipedal beetle is far too well-dressed.

At the top there’s a fence, with signs facing the other side. No gate is in evidence, but the fence isn’t too much of an obstacle. From the other side, the signs can be read as saying variations on “beware of the magic.” Huh.

From atop the slope, there’s at least a clearly visible destination. A nearby city, it may not be any city that was nearby when he was last conscious, but it’s better than here. He heads toward it.