Shrinking at the speed of light, the deafening shockwave of the device's crash catches up to you. You lose touch with the floor as the rippling quake surges by, and you brace your impact on hands and knees. The matter transposer settles into place with slight aftershocks, standing in the distance as a stadium-sized structure. As it wobbles, every little scuff and scratch on its metal case glimmer under the florescent lights like canyons and craters.
You begin to approach it, but the distance is a vast gulf of flat blue stone, like walking across an ocean littered with tiny brown pebbles of dirt otherwise invisible to the naked eye. The dingy, gray channel between two tiles is wider than a six lane highway. You step into it and cross the hard, coarse surface and climb up on the other side. The transposer could be miles away at this scale. There's nowhere to go. The person at the door is already here and making a beeline for it. There's no way to get there before they do.
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