It was a science fiction convention of some sort. Some of the attendees were heavily disguised in costumes that ranged from alien beings to robots.

Looking over his shoulder, Connor surveyed the room he was in. He was in a small makeshift tent of some sort. Everything was black. The floor was hard and cold, but covered in a rough tarp. There was a round table nearby draped in black material. Atop it was a globe, which was creating the light reflecting off what he now realized was a ceiling. A woman lay on a padded table, eyes closed, lost in the hypnotic state that had brought him here. Connor suspected she had been "put under" by the man presently bent over stealing money from her purse.

Snorting with disgust, Connor lurched to unsteady feet and tried not to breathe through his nose. He withdrew the man's wallet out of his back pocket and took all the cash from inside.

"Karma, asshole."

He left as quickly as his shaky legs would allow. There was a soft buzzing in the air, the sound of words forming in their most infantile states. How he made it through the crowds was a mystery to him. The scents of the human world assaulted him. Fake smells, such as perfumes. Food smells. Body odor.

In the Twilight and in the Dreamers' subconscious such sensory perceptions were dulled or stripped to their most basic. Not so in reality. Connor was forced to pause at a trash receptacle by the exit to throw up.

He didn't like it here. His heart ached. He wanted to go home, a home he loved and missed terribly already.

Instead he pushed open the glass doors of the Anaheim Convention Center and stepped out to his new world.