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Changing Channels.

Inches from the cinema screen, Graeme stopped.

It was number 5 this time, one of only two screens (the other being 9) with a restroom conveniently, if suspiciously, placed beside the entrance, complete with bright shining decor and regularly bleached toilet water.

Not to be deterred, Graeme had no problems striding confidently towards the wide, imposing door. Lessons had been learnt from two weeks ago and he knew the inevitable could not wait. He walked in…….no he didn’t.

He emerged outside. In a forest. Turning around, he saw that the door he had entered through was no more, a relic lost in space, time, or caught somewhere in between. In place of it, an old looking sign stood. Graeme called upon the compartments of his brain dealing predominantly with intelligence, and was able to identify the text on the sign as Rio de Janiero. He had arrived in Brazil. Never one to waste an opportunity, Graeme decided to head for the nearest coastal town.

Which proved a difficult task. The forests of Brazil didn’t seem the safest tourist destination this time of year. Frequently he was ambushed by soldiers with guns. Once or twice, he swore he saw a large green man running past, naked but for a small area of torn pants covering what must have been a groin out of proportion with the rest of his body. However, he was in a forest and there was a lot of green. Light reflections off the trees played tricks with his eyes, filtering through to a hyperactive imagination, although he wasn’t previously aware that trees could roar, just like, say, a large green man with anger issues.

Tripping and banging his head on a tree, Graeme awoke at some unspecified point in the future. In a desert. Hmm, he thought, something may be amiss around here. He looked down to see he had tripped over a missile labelled Stark Industries. Seeing that those soldiers had not disappeared, defence had to be utilised. And the missile was the closest thing to his left hand.

Gripping a missile tightly when you have no idea of its immediate or indefinite history is clearly not the wisest decision to make in a time of crisis. Although, strangely, when Graeme awoke (in a snowstorm), he was healthy looking. Unnervingly healthy looking, in fact. The blast had blown his hand off and yet it had grown back. But boy was it cold.

It took 12 long, arduous hours for the ice to melt. Emerging into the Arctic Circle, Graeme finally saw the same door he had originally came through to reach this versatile land. It was colored red, white and blue, and had a poster of a man in tights on a carefully constructed wall alongside, but was undeniably the door leading to the film he had ventured out of hiding to see. He dashed for it. He ran through it.

The result was a review of Captain America: The First Avenger.

……………However, things did not end there.

This kind of thing doesn’t happen every day, Graeme thought. Something had caused this. Or someone. He felt he had a choice between staying late and discovering all the answers, or leaving now out of fear for what he might find. Obviously, he chose to just leave.

He didn’t notice Loki, mischievous figure from Norse mythology, watching him as he sprinted full speed out of the cinema.

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