Field Trippin
Copyright© 2026 by Sci-FiTy1972
Chapter 1
Week 1 — Day 1
They didn’t get chased.
That surprised Tyler most.
There was shouting at first—short, sharp sounds that ricocheted off stone—but it never tipped into anger. People closed in, yes, but not like a mob. This was a circle. Curious faces. Measuring eyes. Hands lifted, palms open.
No one touched them.
A man older than the rest stepped forward. His words hit Tyler’s ears in pieces, then settled as the AirPods caught up.
—you do not belong to any road we know—
Eric blinked. “Okay,” he muttered. “I’m getting ... structure. Not grammar.”
Randy tried a smile. The wrong one. Too quick. A couple of people tilted their heads, confused.
Tyler raised his hands slightly. Not surrender. Acknowledgment.
He glanced down at his phone. The screen offered him options, not sentences.
LOST / NOT FROM HERE / NO INTENT TO HARM
He swallowed.
“We ... are lost,” he said, slowly. “We did not ... mean ... arrive.”
The sounds came out wrong. Too clipped. Too formal.
There was a pause.
Then the older man nodded once, like Tyler had landed close enough to truth.
They were guided—not grabbed—through narrow streets that smelled of smoke and cooked grain. The AirPods worked better now, picking up patterns, smoothing edges.
—market—
—family—
—evening soon—
The city wasn’t broken. It wasn’t quiet. It was alive in the way a place is alive when people expect tomorrow.
Someone pressed a clay cup into Tyler’s hands.
—water—
Randy drank too fast and coughed. A woman laughed—not mocking, just amused.
She said something to Eric and pointed at his shoes. The AirPods hesitated, then shrugged their way through it.
—soft feet—unused—
Randy leaned in. “She just called you delicate.”
Eric frowned. “That’s not what it said.”
“It said something,” Randy replied. “And it wasn’t a compliment.”
They were brought to a courtyard. Shade. Stone worn smooth by feet and time. Not important enough to be guarded. Not unimportant enough to ignore.
And then—without announcement—someone noticed Tyler.
She wasn’t staring.
She was watching.
The AirPods struggled with her first words.
—you speak like falling—sky—
Tyler’s phone lit up with suggestions that didn’t quite fit.
SAY NAME / ACKNOWLEDGE / DO NOT JOKE
“I’m ... Tyler,” he said.
His name didn’t belong to the language. The sound fell apart as soon as it left his mouth.
She repeated it anyway. Slowly. Carefully. Like she was shaping it with her hands.
She touched her chest and said her name.
The AirPods offered nothing.
No translation. No approximation.
Tyler didn’t ask for one.
She smiled—not wide, not shy. Just open.
That helped more than words.
They stayed.
That was the first real surprise.
As the sun slid lower—later than it should have been—they were shown a shared space near the edge of the courtyard. Warm stone. Firelight. The kind of place travelers slept when questions could wait.
Night came gently.
Too gently.
Randy sat near the fire, telling a story with his hands. The words didn’t translate cleanly, but the rhythm did. Laughter landed in the right places anyway.
DeAndre said little. He watched the circle instead, reading posture and breath. When someone stepped too close, he shifted without making it obvious. When tension eased, he relaxed.
Eric checked his phone like it might explain things. Battery stable. Translation holding—but imperfect.
“It’s guessing,” he murmured. “It’s not knowing.”
Tyler sat at the edge of the firelight.
She sat beside him.
Not close enough to touch.
Close enough to be felt.
She spoke. The AirPods tried.
—you are quiet—like listening—
Tyler looked at his phone. It suggested:
AGREE / HUMBLE RESPONSE / DO NOT CLAIM AUTHORITY
“Yes,” he said. Then, after a beat, “I listen.”
The grammar was wrong.
The meaning landed anyway.
She offered him food. Flat bread. Something roasted. When he thanked her, the phone gave him a word that sounded too ceremonial. He said it anyway.
She laughed softly—not unkindly.
Later, she took his hand.
Just that.
Her grip was steady. Certain.
Tyler’s pulse spiked. He almost pulled back—not fear, just not knowing what to do with himself.
She watched him, understanding before the AirPods ever could.
She leaned in and pressed a brief kiss to his cheek.
Soft. Quick. Unmistakable.
Tyler froze, then laughed quietly, embarrassed and unsure.
She smiled, like that reaction was exactly what she’d expected.
When she stood to leave, she didn’t say goodbye.
She didn’t need to.
Randy leaned over. “You okay?”
Tyler nodded. “Yeah.”
DeAndre glanced at him once. “You learned something.”
Tyler didn’t answer.
Above them, the stars were wrong.
Too many. Too sharp.
And for the first time since the doorway vanished, Tyler understood something clearly:
They could survive here.
Because they didn’t need perfect words.
Which meant leaving—when it came—was going to hurt more than fear.
Week 1 — Days 2–3
By the second morning, the city stopped watching them so closely.
That was how Tyler knew something had shifted—not acceptance, exactly, but accounting. They had become part of the pattern. Not important enough to track. Not strange enough to fear.
They learned where not to walk.
Which alleys emptied too quickly. Which courtyards were for families, not strangers. Which glances meant keep moving and which meant you’re fine.
The AirPods improved—not because they got smarter, but because the boys did. They spoke less. Listened more. Let silence finish sentences words couldn’t.
Eric stopped trying to say things perfectly. He learned that speed mattered more than accuracy, and tone mattered more than structure. The phone still offered fragments—concepts, not sentences—but he chose fewer of them.
Randy discovered that humor didn’t always translate, and when it did, it landed differently. Jokes became gestures. Smiles. Shrugs. He learned when to stop before the laugh came too late.
DeAndre watched rhythms instead of words. When the city breathed faster, he slowed. When it tightened, he shifted closer. He figured out who noticed him and who didn’t—and why.
Tyler learned patience the hard way.
He learned that asking how to go home sounded like suspicion. That asking when sounded like impatience. So he stopped asking out loud and started asking himself instead.
They talked about home at night, quietly.
Not parents. Not teachers. Not consequences.
Just small things.
Music they missed. A bus ride that felt like it belonged to another life. The way time at home moved in straight lines instead of circles.
Eric confirmed what they already felt: no signal, no outside reach. The tech worked, but it wasn’t reaching back. Whatever had brought them here wasn’t interested in conversation.
They tried to retrace their steps once—stood near the edge of the city, watched the sun, waited for something to line up.
Nothing happened.
By the third day, they stopped waiting for it.
That was the most unsettling part.
They weren’t trapped. They weren’t free.
They were here.
And the city treated them accordingly.
Week 1 — Day 4
Dinner ended the way most things did here—gradually.
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