Milton Yeager’s feet moved on autopilot as he made his way home from the comic convention, the familiar pulse of the city thrumming around him. It had been a long day—filled with crowded booths, panels, and excited fanfare—and now the excitement had worn off, leaving him with the quiet hum of the urban jungle.

  The convention itself had been a blast, though. He'd scored a few rare comics—some old Star Wars issues that featured the tales of the Knights of the Old Republic, his favorite era of the franchise. The ancient history of the Jedi and the Sith always felt more real to him than the flashy lightsaber duels and Death Star destruction. It was a time before everything had become so neatly defined, when the Force wasn’t just light versus dark but a deeper exploration of balance, power, and the costs of both.

  Milton couldn't help but smile as he thought about the intense discussions that had erupted during the day. He’d overheard a particularly heated debate between a group of Trek fans and Star Wars diehards in one of the halls. He had half-listened as the voices rose in volume, each side vehemently defending their beloved franchise.

  “Star Trek is the only real vision of the future,” one Trek fan had declared, his voice brimming with smugness. “It’s grounded in logic, science, and diplomacy. It shows humanity overcoming its baser instincts, building alliances with alien species, and exploring the galaxy with a sense of responsibility. It’s a realistic path forward for us all!”

  The Star Wars fan opposite him had scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Realistic? Star Trek isn’t sci-fi. It’s just a glorified utopian fantasy. Star Wars, on the other hand, has everything—space battles, ancient orders of knights, and a universe full of rich lore and mystery. It’s about finding your place in a galaxy teeming with possibility, not some cold, sterile future where everything is rational.”

  Milton shook his head, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. He didn’t see why they couldn’t just appreciate both. It all came down to the same thing, right? The desire to escape, to experience something greater than yourself. “It’s all fantasy,” he mused aloud, the thought drifting from his mind like a puff of smoke. “None of it’s real, and it doesn’t have to be. It’s just how we tell stories—stories about human nature, whether we dress them up with lightsabers or starships.”

  To him, the division between Star Wars and Star Trek fans seemed arbitrary. Both franchises were just reflections of the same desire to escape from the everyday grind. Science fiction or fantasy—it didn’t matter. The themes were universal: good versus evil, hope versus despair, sacrifice versus survival. In the end, it was all about what a person wanted from the story. One side wanted the grand space opera, the hero's journey of Star Wars, and the other wanted the more grounded exploration of humanity’s future in Star Trek. Both offered a different kind of escape, but to Milton, they were the same.

  He didn’t have a dog in the fight. Star Wars gave him a world full of epic battles and mystical forces, but Star Trek gave him something else—a vision of the future that was simultaneously optimistic and pragmatic. A future where technology and human nature had evolved to create something greater than the sum of its parts. It was a future where exploration wasn’t just about discovering new worlds but about exploring humanity’s capacity for change, growth, and improvement.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Milton’s mind drifted even further as he rounded a corner, passing by the coffee shop he frequented. He thought about how much he’d love to live in one of those universes, how different it would be from his humdrum life. He’d always dreamed of being someone important, someone who made a difference—whether that was as a Jedi Knight wielding a lightsaber or a starship captain charting the unknown reaches of space.

  But for now, all he had were the mundane details of daily life: his job at a nondescript office, his weekly grocery runs, and his evenings alone with reruns of his favorite shows. His dreams of adventure had long since faded into the background, buried beneath bills and deadlines.

  He was halfway through the block when his thoughts were interrupted by the faint rumble of distant footsteps. A figure darted between the pedestrians ahead of him, so quick and sudden that he barely caught the blur of the hooded figure’s movements. Instinct kicked in, and Milton’s hand tightened around the strap of his briefcase, his attention shifting from his idle thoughts to the sudden tension in the air.

  The figure moved with speed, cutting through the crowd like a shadow, a woman’s purse gripped tightly in their hands. For a moment, Milton hesitated—his body screaming to help, but his mind clouded with uncertainty. He’d never been the heroic type, never the one to chase down a thief or get involved in a street altercation.

  But before he could even think twice, a sharp shove to his back sent him stumbling forward.

  The world tilted, as if the very earth beneath him had suddenly flipped upside down. His arms flailed, trying to regain his balance, but it was futile. He felt his coffee cup slip from his fingers, and in slow motion, he saw it arc through the air, the hot liquid splashing in an elegant, futile pattern before hitting the ground with a dull splat.

  And then the platform was beneath him. His body hit the cold metal of the tracks with a sickening thud, his shoulder taking the brunt of the impact. The world seemed to spin, disorienting and chaotic, like some twisted rollercoaster ride gone wrong. His head spun as his ears filled with the distant screams of bystanders, a panicked voice shouting something he couldn’t quite hear.

  But through the haze of pain and confusion, there was one thing he could hear clearly.

  The rumble of the train.

  It was getting closer.

  Milton turned his head, his vision blurring as the blinding light of the train’s headlamp flooded his field of view. His heart hammered in his chest, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Time seemed to slow down, and for a brief moment, he found himself thinking of the stupid debates he’d just overheard. The divisions, the anger, the pride people took in their favorite franchises.

  And then the train was upon him.

  Darkness.

  But the darkness didn’t last.

  Milton felt a sensation of floating, his body no longer constrained by the physical limits of the world he knew. The pain was gone. The cold metal was gone. His mind buzzed with alien awareness—like a thousand thoughts all trying to invade his consciousness at once. He was aware of something around him, something pressing, cradling him, yet unyielding in its grip.

  In the dark void, there was a pulse, a rhythm, a heartbeat—steady, insistent. Milton felt it reverberate deep within him. And then, in an instant, the whispers began, faint but persistent, echoing in his mind in a language he couldn’t understand.

  Survive.

  The word wasn’t his. It wasn’t even a thought. It was a command. A primal urge that filled him, focused him, like a spark igniting a fire.

  Survive.