The rain isn't just falling; it's throwing a full-blown, foot-stomping tantrum on the corrugated metal roof of the garage. Each drop hits like a tiny ball-peen hammer, a frantic rhythm section trying—and failing—to drown out the steady roar of the propane forge and the satisfying hiss as another piece of hot steel meets the quench oil. Sweat stings my eyes, gluing strands of hair to my forehead and temples like cheap adhesive.

  It's late. Probably stupid-late, the kind of late where sensible people are tucked in bed, dreaming of spreadsheets or TPS reports or whatever sensible people dream about.

  Not me.

  I'm chasing a deadline on this sword guard, a commission for some Renn Faire enthusiast with more disposable income than interest in historical accuracy. Just a bit more shaping on the quillons, a little cleanup on the fuller… almost there. The metal glows under the focused blue flame, a captive sunset waiting to be shaped.

  CRACK-BOOM!

  The overhead fluorescent lights flicker violently, bathing the cluttered space—my glorious kingdom of scrap metal, power tools, and organized chaos—in strobing, sickly green for a half-second before plunging it into absolute darkness. The forge sighs, the propane flame vanishing with a soft pop, like a surprised old man letting out his last breath. Outside, the world explodes in ozone-white brilliance, the thunderclap following so closely it feels like a physical blow, vibrating deep in my teeth and chest cavity.

  My ears scream with sudden pressure, a high-pitched whine blotting out the storm's fury. Okay, message received, universe. Quitting time.

  Probably should have listened ten minutes ago when the rain started sounding less like rain and more like gravel being thrown against the walls by an angry giant. I'm still holding the nearly finished guard with a pair of long V-bit tongs, the dark metal radiating a palpable heat I can feel even from a foot away through the sudden chill in the air. My favorite hammer, a trusty two-pounder with a custom hickory handle I spent weeks shaping perfectly to my grip, rests on the scarred face of the anvil.

  It’s a good hammer. Solid. Dependable. An extension of my own arm after countless hours together.

  And then the surge hits. Not just a flicker this time, not just the lights going out. This is different.

  The air crackles, thickens, heavy like the moments before lightning strikes way too close. Goosebumps erupt on my arms despite the residual heat. It feels like the atmosphere itself gets sucked out of the garage, replaced instantly by the acrid smell of burning insulation, hot metal, and something else… something electric and wild.

  Blue-white light, brighter than a welder's arc, erupts from the ancient breaker box on the wall—a relic that probably predates building codes. It snakes across the oil-stained concrete floor like a living vine of pure energy, illuminating the chaos of my workshop in terrifying detail for a split second. And then, with a noise like ripping fabric amplified a thousand times, it leaps—not towards me, not towards the guard I'm holding—but into the hammer resting innocently on the anvil.

  Everything goes white. Not the brief, blinding flash of lightning, but a thick, consuming, absolute whiteness. Like being submerged in milk, warm and suffocating.

  There's that sound of rending silk again, louder now, ripping through the fabric of the world, accompanied by a gut-wrenching sensation of being squeezed, compressed, forced through a tube far too small for anything remotely human-sized. Panic claws at my throat, a silent scream trapped behind paralyzed lungs. My stomach lurches, my bones feel like they're grinding together, every nerve ending alight with impossible signals.

  Then, just as suddenly as it began, sunlight. Blinding, intense, honest-to-goodness sunlight slams into my retinas. The impossible pressure vanishes.

  Air rushes back into my lungs with a gasp that tears at my throat. I blink, groaning, my body protesting the rough landing. My cheek rests against something soft and surprisingly cool.

  Grass? Little blades tickle my skin, smelling earthy and green. Since when do I have grass in the garage?

  Did the electrical surge somehow trigger a hallucinogenic response in the quench oil fumes? Maybe that questionable burrito I had for lunch wasn't just questionable, but actively psychotropic?

  I push myself up onto my elbows, joints popping in loud complaint. My head spins like I just got off the world's worst carnival ride combined with a heavyweight boxing match. The high-pitched ringing in my ears slowly fades, replaced by… birdsong?

  Actual chirping, tweeting, the whole idyllic nine yards. And voices? Low murmuring, indistinct chatter, definitely human.

  Shaking my head, trying to clear the fog that feels like cotton packed behind my eyes, I force them open again. Blink. Blink again.

  No garage. No workbench piled high with projects in various states of completion. No drill press standing sentinel in the corner.

  No comforting, chaotic clutter of tools, grinders, and scrap metal. I'm sitting—sprawled, really—in the middle of what looks suspiciously like a medieval village square. Or maybe a movie set for a low-budget Robin Hood knockoff.

  Dirt paths, hard-packed and dusty, wind between timber-framed houses with thick thatched roofs, many leaning at angles that would give a modern building inspector nightmares. Smoke curls lazily from stone chimneys. Chickens peck and scratch in the dust nearby, utterly unconcerned by my sudden, undignified appearance.

  A goat tied to a post bleats mournfully. And people… people are staring. Lots of people.

  Dressed in tunics and roughspun trousers and simple, ankle-length dresses in shades of brown and faded green, they're standing stock-still, mouths agape, pointing directly at me. Not just glancing. Staring.

  The 'look, a two-headed goat juggling chainsaws just materialized from thin air' kind of stare. A little girl drops the wooden doll she was holding. An old man lowers the bucket he was carrying from a central stone well, water sloshing over the side.

  Okay. Right. This is fine.

  Totally normal Tuesday afternoon. Maybe the landing was rougher than I initially assumed during the electrical fireworks. Maybe I finally snapped from sleep deprivation and Renn Faire commissions, and this is my brain's way of checking out with a full-blown historical hallucination.

  My hand clenches automatically, fingers tightening around something solid and familiar lying in the grass beside me. I look down. It's my hammer.

  My trusty two-pounder, hickory handle smooth against my palm. It looks perfectly normal, not remotely like something that just absorbed enough electricity to power a small town. It’s cool to the touch now, strangely so, considering the ambient heat and the fact it was ground zero for… whatever the hell that was.

  Cool, and felt... strangely quiet? Unlike the storm that had raged moments before? Weird. Where are the tongs I was holding?

  The nearly finished sword guard? Gone. Vanished. Just the hammer remains, lying innocently beside me.

  A stout woman with forearms like oak branches and a face like a disgruntled bulldog detaches herself from the gawking crowd. She plants her hands on her hips, points a thick, accusing finger squarely at my chest, and unleashes a torrent of angry-sounding words. It's guttural, sharp, vaguely Germanic maybe?

  Definitely not English. Or Spanish. Or any of the Klingon I painstakingly learned in college for purely academic reasons, of course.

  I scramble awkwardly to my feet, acutely aware of my own bizarre attire in this setting – faded Metallica 'Master of Puppets' t-shirt, grease-stained jeans, steel-toed work boots. I probably look like some kind of demon spat out by a heavy metal album cover. I hold up my hands in what I hope is a universal 'I come in peace, please don't shank me with a turnip fork' gesture.

  I offer a weak, hopefully non-threatening smile that feels tight and unnatural on my face. "Uh, hi?" I venture, my voice raspy and uncertain. "Lost? Bathroom? Little help?"

  I mime looking confused, pointing at myself, then making a wide, questioning gesture around the square. Pointless, probably, if they don't speak English, but it's all I've got. She just scowls fiercely, spits emphatically on the ground near my boots—okay, charming, real welcoming—and rattles off something else, short and sharp, clearly an insult or a command to leave.

  Stolen story; please report.

  Then she turns abruptly and herds a gaggle of wide-eyed children away from me as if I might be contagious with modernity or bad guitar riffs. The remaining villagers keep their distance, muttering amongst themselves, their expressions a mixture of fear, suspicion, and morbid curiosity. No one steps forward to help.

  No one smiles back. Okay, Alex. Deep breaths.

  Assess the situation. You're in... somewhere distinctly not-Nevada. Not home.

  Dressed like a time-traveling metalhead. You have your favorite hammer, which might or might not be magical now. You don't speak the local lingo.

  People think you're weird, possibly dangerous. Survival checklist priority one: Shelter. Or at least, somewhere less public.

  Then water. Then food. Then figure out what kind of immersive, hyper-realistic Renaissance Faire LARP went horribly, horribly wrong and how to contact customer support.

  Assuming there is customer support in Hallucinationville. I clutch the hammer tighter. Its familiar weight, the worn smoothness of the handle, is the only solid, real thing in this bizarre, sun-drenched, suddenly terrifying reality.

  Time to find somewhere I can freak out in peace. And maybe figure out if I still have my wallet. Though something tells me my Visa card isn't going to be much use here.

  Right. Operation Find Somewhere To Not Be Stared At And Possibly Burned As A Witch is officially a go. Hugging the edges of the dusty square, I try my best to look inconspicuous, which is fundamentally impossible when I'm dressed like I mugged a roadie at a Slayer concert and everyone else looks like they stepped out of a low-budget history documentary about medieval turnip farming. Every few steps, someone pauses their vital task—be it arguing over a cabbage, yelling at chickens, or just staring blankly into the middle distance—to gawk at me.

  I offer tight-lipped smiles that probably look more like pained grimaces, trying to project 'harmless weirdo' rather than 'harbinger of doom'. The architecture is… rustic. That's the polite term.

  Lots of dark, heavy timber beams, often warped or crooked, form the skeletons of the buildings. The walls between the timbers are filled in with what looks like 'wattle and daub' – woven sticks plastered over with a mixture of mud, straw, and something that smells suspiciously like horse dung. Thick thatched roofs, sprouting weeds and moss like unfortunate hairy moles, sag precariously over rough wooden window frames, most lacking glass.

  It’s all leaning and sagging, like the whole village is collectively tired after a very long night and just wants a nap. My eyes scan the collection of hovels, searching for anything that looks unoccupied or less likely to house pitchfork-wielding occupants suspicious of strangers in strange trousers. There’s a building slightly larger than the others, with loud, off-key singing spilling out along with a man staggering sideways into the dusty street – must be the local tavern.

  Tempting, but probably not ideal for a quiet freak-out. Another structure looks vaguely official, maybe a town hall? Best avoided.

  Then I spot it, tucked away on a narrow side path winding between a larger house and a structure radiating an unmistakable aura of 'horse stable'. It’s small, built with rough stone for the lower walls transitioning to timber-frame above, topped with a roof that’s losing thatch faster than a balding man loses hair in a hurricane. A faded wooden sign hangs crookedly above the door, clinging precariously to one rusty hinge.

  The carving is weathered, almost obliterated, but I can just make out the faint outline of a hammer and maybe… a horseshoe? Whatever it is, the shape language screams 'smithy'. A very sad, very neglected smithy.

  Looks abandoned. Perfect. The door groans open under my tentative push, hinges complaining loudly.

  I slip inside quickly, pulling the door mostly shut behind me, plunging the interior into dusty gloom. The sudden quiet is almost deafening. The air inside is thick, heavy with the ghosts of countless coal fires, the tang of rust, and the unmistakable musty scent of mouse droppings and decay.

  Lovely. Home sweet hovel. Cobwebs hang in thick, grey ropes from the low rafters.

  Tools – or things that were once tools – hang haphazardly on the walls, coated in grime. An anvil sits squatly on a massive log stump in the center of the dirt floor, its face scarred and pitted. Beside the cold stone forge, a large leather bellows lies deflated and ripped.

  Compared to my setup back home, this is like comparing a spaceship to a broken tricycle. Double crap. Okay, Alex.

  Focus. Panic later. Assess resources.

  If this is a smithy, maybe I can make myself useful. First step: fire. Finding fuel isn't the immediate issue; a dusty bin holds crumbly coal.

  Getting the bellows working is the challenge. The rips are bad. I rummage through the clutter, finding some stiff leather scraps and rusty twine.

  My attempt at patching is crude, ugly as sin, but after much fumbling, the bellows produce a wheezing gasp instead of just sighing sadly. Progress! Now for fire itself.

  Flint and steel lie near the hearth. Looks easy on TV. It is emphatically not easy.

  I scrape and strike, sending pathetic sparks skittering uselessly. My modern hands feel clumsy. Gods, if only I could just will this thing to light.

  Like pouring intention into metal... maybe? Probably not. My knuckles are raw by the time a tiny, reluctant spark finally catches in the dusty tinder I gathered.

  "Come on, baby," I whisper, hunched over the fledgling ember like a mother hen. "Burn for papa." Slowly, agonizingly, a tiny flame flickers to life.

  I carefully add slivers of wood, then small lumps of coal. Wheeze-gasp. Wheeze-gasp.

  The patched bellows work, barely. The coal begins to glow, reluctantly surrendering its stored sunlight. Orange, then yellow-white.

  The heat pushes back the gloom, casting dancing shadows. It feels… familiar. Comforting.

  The heart of the smithy beats again, however feebly. "Did you make fire?" The small voice makes me jump, nearly scattering my precious embers.

  I spin around. Standing just inside the doorway, peering into the gloom with wide, curious eyes, is a young girl. She looked about eight or nine.

  She has a tangle of brown hair escaping a rough braid, a smudge of dirt on her nose, and wears a simple, patched-up woolen dress. Unlike the adults, her expression isn't hostile or fearful, just intensely curious. "Uh, yeah," I say, startled.

  "Just getting the forge going." "How?" she asks, taking a cautious step further inside, her eyes fixed on the glowing coals. "Ma says only Master Elms could make the forge roar proper, and he's been gone years now."

  "Just… flint and steel," I say, displaying them. "And some patience." A lot of patience.

  "I'm Brynn," she offers, seemingly deciding I'm not immediately dangerous. "You fell out of the sky." It wasn't a question.

  "That's one way to put it," I admit. "I'm Alex. And I didn't so much fall as… get zapped here."

  Probably best not to lead with the lightning-eating hammer story. Brynn nods slowly, accepting this bizarre explanation with surprising ease. Kids.

  "Are you a wizard?" she whispers conspiratorially. "Nope," I sigh. "Just a blacksmith. A very lost blacksmith."

  She eyes the pathetic forge, the rusty tools, then me in my weird clothes. "Can you fix things?" "Trying to," I say.

  "Starting with this place." I gesture around the dilapidated smithy. "First fire, then maybe find some work? People need things fixed, right?"

  Brynn shrugs. "Mostly things break. Old Man Zoran’s cart lost a wheel yesterday. And Gudrun's plough is bent something awful." Gudrun's plough. Bingo.

  "Bent ploughshare?" I ask, remembering the farmer I saw struggling earlier. "Big iron tip?" Brynn nods.

  "Aye. Ox can't pull it straight." Okay. Potential customer identified.

  Maybe this kid is useful. "Right. Thanks, Brynn." Now I just need to secure payment, preferably in something edible.

  "Maybe you should run along now? This place is pretty dirty." With a wrinkled nose, Brynn surveys the cobwebs and grime. "Okay. Will you make sparks fly later?"

  "Hopefully," I say. "If I can find something to hit." She offers a final curious look, then slips back out the door as silently as she appeared, leaving me alone again with the wheezing bellows, the glowing coals, and the daunting task ahead.

  At least one person in this village doesn't seem immediately convinced I'm here to eat their children or curse their livestock. That's... something. Now, about that ploughshare...

  I crack the door open again, peering out. The farmer is still there, wrestling futilely with the bent plough. Time to make my pitch.

  I step out, attempting to appear capable. "Hey! Mister Farmer!" I wave, indicating the plough, then the smoking chimney, then miming hammering.

  "Fix! Good!" I pause, remembering Brynn's intel and my empty stomach. "Uh… food?"

  I rub my belly hopefully. The farmer eyes me, then the smithy, then the plough. Suspicion wars with desperation on his weathered face.

  Finally, with a grunt that sounds like surrender, he drags the heavy plough over, dumping it unceremoniously at my feet. Showtime. I kneel, examining the damage.

  Thick iron, crudely forged, badly bent. Should be straightforward... right? I grab tongs, heft the heavy share into the newly-lit forge.

  The coal glows brighter as I work the patched bellows. Wheeze-gasp. The iron heats, turning orange, then yellow-orange.

  I haul the share onto the anvil. I lift my hammer— my hammer. And there it is again.

  That faint, weird resonance, humming up my arm. Stress? Hunger? Or… something else?

  I shake my head, focus. My hammer strikes. THWACK! The metal moves, straightening far too easily, almost perfectly on the first hit.

  Huh. Weird. Soft iron?

  Adrenaline? Why did that happen? Second heat, just to be sure.

  Lift the hammer. That hum again, eager, almost alive. Tap, tap.

  The metal flows like putty, smoothing, aligning perfectly. Too perfectly. This isn't normal.

  Quench. Hiss. Present the repaired share.

  The farmer inspects it, grunts—maybe approvingly this time?—and hands over a dense loaf of dark bread and half a bruised apple. Payment accepted. He shoulders the plough and trudges off.

  I watch him go, then look down at the hammer. It feels normal again. Inert.

  Just a tool. But the ease of the repair, that resonance… something's not right. I look at the bread, then towards the smithy.

  Shelter, food, and a hammer that might be haunted by lightning. It's a start. Now, troubled by the ease of that fix, I grab a piece of scrap iron from the pile near the forge.

  Just a quick test. I heat it, carry it to the anvil. Intent: Strong.

  Hold shape. Emotion: Determination. Just basic blacksmithing focus.

  I strike the metal. CLANG! The result? The scrap piece becomes intensely magnetic, but only to wood shavings and sawdust, uselessly attracting bits of grime and debris from the dirt floor.

  "'Okay,' I mutter, gazing at the sawdust-covered scrap. "So not doing it is hard, but doing it deliberately is impossible? Or just results in... this? Great. Just great."

  This hammer isn't just weird; it's actively uncooperative. Now to figure out the rules, and whether my favorite tool is now my biggest problem. Was it my focus on keeping it straight, resisting deviation?

  Like pouring stubbornness into the metal? This will be a nightmare. Or maybe… just maybe… Brynn was right.

  Maybe it is interesting?