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Quentin doesn't know where he is, but he doesn't like it here.
First of all, when he stumbled through that glowing, electric-ish thing in the middle of the hallway, it was to find himself deposited in the Brakebills library. Which wouldn't be cause for concern if not for the fact that the library is in shambles for some reason, and, oh yeah, Margo and Eliot are dead.
So this can't possibly be his world, because he—he'd know, if his best friends were dead. If Eliot...He'd know, is all. Especially if it happened at Brakebills. Especially if it was as goddamn traumatic as this is. Traumatic enough to make Quentin throw up, to make him turn away and press his forehead to the wall because he can't watch this, he can't see these horrible things happen to two people he loves so very deeply. He can't watch as they're forced to live their deaths over and over again.
He—he just. Quentin just does. Not. Like. It. Here. Wherever 'here' is in the first place. Whatever this broken-down, terrible place is, it's not his world, and he wants to get the fuck out of it.
The only problem is he has absolutely zero idea how he's supposed to do that. He doesn't even know how he got here in the first place, doesn't know what that weird electric surge was. It came out of nowhere and vanished just as quickly, and apparently only saw fit to take Quentin instead of any of the other people hanging around the campus. Which, great. Thanks. If he had to pick something to be chosen for it would definitely be this little fucked up adventure.
He leaves the library, because it might be his only connection to whatever brought him here, but it's also basically Hell on Earth with the Eliot and Margo show going on, and he...he can't watch it happen again. He wishes he knew how to cleanse a place of ghosts, because he'd do it for them. He wants to do it for them, so desperately. Wants to help them move on more than he can describe. But that's just—not in his repertoire.
Quentin stumbles out of the library, drawing in shaky breaths, trying to tune out the screaming behind him.
Brakebills is...a wreck, Quentin discovers as he moves through the halls. Broken down, dark, deserted. What could've possibly happened here to make it this way? He can't imagine the kind of force it would take to decimate a school full of magicians. None of them masters, maybe, but a shit ton of extremely talented, powerful magicians would have to be able to stand a chance against anything that would want to do them harm, right? And that's not even mentioning the staff.
A sound somewhere behind him makes Quentin whirl around, hands raising in preparation. His heart is pounding in his chest, his eyes darting from side to side, looking for the source of the sound. The shadows seem to dance around him, mocking him, and then he sucks in a startled breath when one really does move, a figure sliding out of the darkness, slowly walking towards Quentin.
And then his breath catches for an entirely different reason, because that's the Beast. That's the fucking Beast, complete with the cloud of moths, six fingers, and three-piece suit. It's the goddamn Beast, holy shit, Martin Chatwin is alive in this world and Quentin is all alone. He's about to die, fuck, he is about to fucking die—
"Well," the Beast says, and that—this is not Martin's voice. That sounds like... "Of all the people I expected to run into, myself was probably the last possible person."
Quentin stares, horror rising in his gut, as the moths fly away, revealing the face of the person beneath. The extremely familiar face.
It almost doesn't comprehend at first. The fact that Quentin is looking at a mirror image of himself, but draped in all the dressings of the monster that still pops up in Quentin's dreams from time to time. It doesn't—it just doesn't make sense. Quentin's body shouldn't be dressed up like that, shouldn't have an extra fucking finger on each hand. Quentin's face shouldn't be fixed in this blank expression, a vague curiosity devoid of any real emotion.
It is just—it's wrong, it's so fucking wrong.
"What the hell," Quentin breathes, staring at the goddamn Bizarro version of himself.
One corner of Other Q's mouth ticks up in something like amusement. But it's still so—vague, so distant, like it's not quite a real emotion. There's nothing in his eyes, that hazel the same shade as Quentin's own but flat like a shark's instead of alive, the way Eliot said Quentin's eyes always seemed to be, always full of emotion. This is so far from that it's not even funny.
"Yeah, ditto," Other Q says dryly, sliding his hands into the pockets of his slacks. It 's better, like that; Quentin can pretend this version of him didn't mutilate himself, if the hands are hidden. He tilts his head, a gesture that should be casual but feels anything but. "What are you doing here, Me?"
"I have—no idea," Quentin stutters, eyes wide. He still can't believe this is real. Maybe it's not; maybe it's a fucked up dream, or spell, or some shit. Maybe he's not actually looking at a whacked out version of himself. "What the hell is this place? It, uh, no way this is real."
Other Q snorts. "Sorry, but this is real. The question is who are you, exactly. Is this time travel, and you're a past version of me? Or are you an alternate version of me? Because those have very different outcomes here."
Quentin has a very bad feeling about what he means by that. It makes him want to be a past version, because then he's more likely to survive this encounter, but also...Also, the idea of this being his future, the idea of turning into this monster—No, Quentin can't imagine anything more horrific. He doesn't know what happened to make this Q turn out this way, but the end result is terrible, and he can't imagine becoming this. He doesn't want to imagine it.
"Dunno," Quentin says stiffly. "But I'd really like to just go back to wherever I'm from, thanks. So if you could point me in the direction of a magic portal hanging around somewhere, that would be great."
Other Q smiles, almost amused. "Sorry, I haven't exactly mastered the art of dimensional and time travel; no idea how to get you back to wherever you're from. But in the meantime—" He takes an ominous, threatening step forward, and Quentin matches it, stepping back, "—why don't we compare notes? Find out exactly where you exist on the timeline, or where things...diverged, for us."
Yeah, no, Quentin absolutely does not want to do that, thanks no thanks.
He opens his mouth to explain just that—hopefully in a way that does not offend the extremely creepy version of himself, since he doesn't feel like dying at this particular moment—when there's suddenly a tugging sensation in his gut and the taste of pennies in his mouth. His body starts to—vibrate, almost, and the last thing he sees before his vision explodes in colors is Other Q frowning, mildly put out and no more emotion than that.
When the colors fade, Quentin finds himself in the exact same hallway he was already in, but this time it isn't destroyed and dark, but exactly as he remembers Brakebills before this weird as fuck mini-adventure. And standing in front of him, whole and alive, are Margo and Eliot.
Quentin wastes no time in throwing his arms around them in a tight hug, ignoring Margo's disgruntled comment since she hugs him back anyway, however awkwardly she does so. Eliot hugs back more readily, and somewhere in there is a rushed explanation about an experiment gone wrong, and questions over whether or not he's okay, and where the fuck did he end up exactly, and Fogg wants to speak to him, but Quentin lets it all wash over him because thank fuck he's back home.
And as soon as he stops feeling like his legs are going to collapse out from under him, he'll figure out exactly how to prevent something like that from ever happening again. Because that is an absolute fuck no to ever returning to whatever fucked up world he took a detour into.