The red notification on the brass ring was relentless: Low Battery. Please charge in order to return your home dimension.
"What the hell do you mean?" Kaan hissed, pulling his hand away from the Ring. "You can transport people across dimensions, but you can't transport them back without a charge? What am I supposed to do now?"
He screamed internally, but externally, he forced himself to stand still, aware of the curious glances from the busy people of Agarita. His mind was racing, but this time, the race was ordered. He had to be an engineer, not a panicked tourist.
"Priorities," he muttered, forcing himself to breathe. "First, this is an Industrial Age dimension. They use steam engines and crude dynamos for power. I have to find a way to create a stable, regulated charging port and charge this damn thing."
He quickly moved to his second priority: "I'll operate under the assumption that time passed here also passes on Earth, meaning I might get fired. I have to bring something valuable back—something easily monetized—like gold, or perhaps advanced local materials. And third, and most important right now, I have to find a job here for lodging and eating."
As he walked, a hand-painted wooden sign caught his eye: WORKERS NEEDED FOR TEXTILE FACTORY! 4 THALERS PER DAY, 12-HOUR SHIFT!
"Ah, so they have the slave—I mean, the factory shift system here," Kaan thought. "Great. A textile factory must have a steam engine and dynamo I can use for observation."
He noted the address and asked a group of newsboys clustered on the corner.
"Hey, kids! Where is this factory?" Kaan asked, pointing at the sign.
"Go right down this street, mister. It's at the very end. You can't miss all the smoke," one replied.
"Thanks, kids."
He followed the smoke until he reached the massive, gray brick building. In front of the gates stood a man in his forties, wearing a faded cap and dark clothes, his hands stained with cotton dust.
"Excuse me," Kaan said, approaching the man.
"Yeah?" the man replied gruffly.
"Is this the factory looking for workers?"
"Yeah."
"Where can I apply?"
The man looked Kaan up and down—at his strangely clean, if slightly wrinkled, modern clothes—and shrugged, his eyes deadened by years of labor. "No need to apply. You're breathing, right? You're hired! Come on, I'll show you the machines."
"What? That easy?" Kaan thought, a bitter smile twisting his face.
He had expected a battle, a test of skill, or a resume review. Instead, he was immediately accepted into crushing, manual labor. He realized with a deep, unsettling certainty that he was living the exact same life in another dimension—the overlooked, desperate worker—only this time, his potential paycheck was a Type-C charge.
"Why, God," Kaan whispered to himself, following the man through the gates. "Why do you put this on me?"