The portal opened onto the square at exactly 3:47 PM.
Zaya stepped through first, the shimmer of the Neonverse still clinging to her like static electricity. She blinked in the afternoon sunlight, adjusting to the muted colors of this world after the electric brilliance of home. Kairo followed, Spark zipping out last before the portal sealed itself with a soft pop that sounded like a soap bubble bursting.
They stood in the alley for a moment, hidden from view, gathering themselves.
"You ready?" Kairo asked.
Zaya took a breath. Her hands were trembling slightly. Not from fear. From anticipation. From the weight of not knowing if anyone would actually show up.
"Yeah," she said. "I'm ready."
They walked toward the square.
The fountain was exactly as Zaya remembered it — a circular stone structure with water trickling over smooth rocks, creating that gentle white noise that somehow made the city feel less overwhelming. Benches ringed the fountain, and beyond them, the square opened into a wider plaza where food carts usually gathered and street performers claimed their spots.
It was 3:52 PM.
The square was empty.
Well, not empty. People passed through on their way to somewhere else. A woman with grocery bags. A man in a business suit checking his phone. Two joggers in matching gear. But no one stopped. No one lingered.
Zaya's stomach tightened.
"Early," Kairo said, reading her expression. "We're early. People will come."
"Yeah," Zaya said, but her voice sounded uncertain even to herself.
They sat on one of the benches. Spark floated between them, unusually quiet, sensing the tension.
3:55 PM.
A group of teenagers walked through the square, laughing about something on one of their phones. They glanced at Zaya and Kairo — took in the bright clothes, the mismatched everything — and kept walking. One of them whispered something, and the others laughed.
Zaya felt heat rise in her cheeks. Not her Lumina Bloom. Just embarrassment.
"Maybe this was stupid," she said quietly.
"It's not stupid," Kairo said firmly. "Give it time."
4:00 PM.
The square remained mostly empty. A few more people passed through, but no one stopped. No one looked like they were searching for something. For a gathering. For permission to be themselves.
Zaya's chest felt tight. She thought about all those conversations yesterday. The barista who seemed so eager. The girl with the sketchbook. The boy with the bike. Had she misread them? Had they just been polite? Had they gone home and forgotten all about it?
4:03 PM.
"We could just go," Zaya said, standing up. "Before this gets more embarrassing."
"Zaya—"
"No one's coming, Kairo. We talked to maybe twenty people and none of them—"
"Someone's here."
Zaya turned.
At the edge of the square, standing near one of the food carts, was the barista from the café. She wore her mismatched earrings — planets and geometric shapes — and a jacket covered in pins and patches. She was looking around nervously, like she wasn't sure she was in the right place.
Zaya's breath caught.
The barista's eyes found them. Recognition flashed across her face, followed by relief. She walked over, hesitant but determined.
"Is this... is this it?" the barista asked.
"Yeah," Zaya said, her voice coming out shaky. "This is it."
The barista smiled, nervous but genuine. "Okay. Good. I wasn't sure if I had the right spot."
She sat down on the bench next to Zaya, and for a moment, none of them said anything. Just sat there, three people in a square, existing together.
4:07 PM.
The girl with the sketchbook arrived. Then the boy with the colorful bike, which he leaned carefully against a bench before sitting down. Then two people Zaya didn't recognize, but who looked at the small group forming and seemed to understand what it meant.
Then more.
A kid in light-up sneakers — not the same kid from before, but maybe a friend, maybe someone who'd heard. A teenager with half their head shaved and the other half bright purple. Someone in a dress that looked homemade, pieced together from different fabrics and patterns. A boy with painted nails. A girl with a jacket that said "TOO MUCH" across the back in glittery letters.
They came slowly at first, cautiously, like animals approaching something that might be safe or might be a trap. But they came.
By 4:15, there were maybe fifteen people gathered around the fountain. Some sat. Some stood. Most were quiet, still figuring out what this was, if it was real, if they were allowed to stay.
Zaya looked at Kairo. His eyes were bright, that fierce smile starting to form.
"They came," he said quietly.
"They came," Zaya repeated.
Spark floated up higher, visible now, glowing with excitement. A few people noticed and pointed, whispering to each other. But no one seemed scared. If anything, they seemed delighted. Like Spark's impossibility fit perfectly with whatever this gathering was supposed to be.
By 4:30, the crowd had grown to thirty, maybe forty people. They filled the benches and spilled onto the plaza, forming loose clusters. Some were talking quietly to each other. Others just sat, observing, being present.
Zaya stood up. She didn't plan to speak. Didn't have a speech prepared. But something about the moment felt like it needed words. Even just a few.
"Hey," she said, not loudly, but enough that people nearby turned to look. The conversations quieted. "I'm Zaya. This is Kairo. And this is Spark."
Spark did a little loop in the air, and a few people laughed.
"We didn't really know if anyone would show up," Zaya continued. "We just... we noticed something happening in this city. People making themselves smaller. Dimming themselves. And we thought maybe there should be a space where you don't have to do that. Where you can just... exist. As you are. Without performance or judgment or trying to fit."
She paused, looking at the faces around her. Young and old. Different styles, different stories. All of them here for the same reason.
"So that's what this is," Zaya said. "Just space. Just permission. You're enough. Exactly as you are."
For a moment, no one said anything.
Then someone started clapping. Slowly at first, then others joined in. Not wild applause, but something quieter. Something that felt like relief.
A girl near the back stood up. She was maybe thirteen, wearing a bright yellow hoodie with hand-drawn designs all over it. The same hoodie from the sneaker court. The one the guy had criticized. The one the kid had taken off and hidden.
But this girl was wearing it proudly now.
"I almost didn't come," she said, her voice shaking slightly. "I thought maybe it was a trick. Or maybe I'd get here and realize I didn't belong. But..." She looked around at everyone. "This feels real."
"It is real," someone else said. A boy with a skateboard covered in stickers. "I've been editing myself for so long I forgot what the original looked like."
"Same," another person said. "I have a whole closet of clothes I never wear because I'm worried about what people will think."
"I deleted my whole social media last month," someone added. "Everything I posted felt like I was trying to prove something instead of just... being."
The stories started spilling out. Not in any organized way. Just people sharing, releasing things they'd been holding. The weight of constant performance. The exhaustion of monitoring themselves. The loneliness of feeling like you couldn't show up as yourself anywhere.
Zaya felt her chest warming. Her Lumina Bloom was stirring, responding to the hope in the air, the fragile beautiful thing that was forming between all these people.
And then he arrived.
The guy in the black turtleneck.
Zaya saw him first, standing at the edge of the square with his phone out, filming. Her stomach dropped.
Kairo noticed her expression and turned. When he saw the guy, his jaw tightened. Electricity sparked faintly at his fingertips.
The guy walked closer, still filming, that same controlled expression on his face. A few people in the crowd noticed and went quiet. The energy shifted, tension creeping in.
He stopped a few feet from the fountain, lowering his phone slightly.
"Interesting," he said, his voice carrying across the now-silent square. "A gathering of misfits. Very... brave."
The word "brave" sounded like an insult the way he said it.
"You're filming people without permission," Kairo said, stepping forward. "That's not cool."
The guy shrugged. "Public space. Public content." He gestured at the crowd. "And this is definitely content. All this mismatched chaos? People are going to have opinions."
Zaya felt people around her shrinking. Literally pulling back, crossing arms, making themselves smaller. The same instinct from the sneaker court. The same learned behavior.
"Why are you here?" Zaya asked, her voice steady even though her hands were shaking.
"Documenting," he said simply. "This is a trend. Probably won't last, but it's interesting while it's happening. The whole 'anti-aesthetic aesthetic.' Very 2026."
He raised his phone again, panning across the crowd.
And Zaya made a choice.
She stepped directly in front of his camera. Close enough that all he could film was her face.
"Stop," she said quietly.
"Excuse me?"
"Stop filming. These people didn't come here to be content. They came here to exist. There's a difference."
The guy's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes. Annoyance maybe. Or surprise that someone was pushing back.
"You can't tell me what to film," he said.
"You're right," Zaya said. "I can't. But I can ask. And I can stand here blocking your shot until you decide to respect people's boundaries."
They stared at each other for a long moment.
Then Kairo stepped up beside Zaya. Then the barista. Then the girl in the yellow hoodie. Then more people, forming a wall between the guy and the rest of the crowd.
Not aggressive. Not violent.
Just present. Just taking up space.
The guy looked at them, at the wall of people refusing to be content, refusing to be judged, refusing to shrink.
And for the first time since they'd seen him, he looked uncertain.
"This is ridiculous," he muttered.
"Maybe," Zaya said. "But we're staying."
He stood there for another few seconds, phone still raised but not filming anything useful. Then, slowly, he lowered it. Turned. And walked away.
The crowd watched him go in silence.
And then someone laughed. Not mean, just... relieved. Released.
And then someone else laughed.
And then the whole square was laughing, not at anything specific, just at the absurdity of it, the victory of it, the fact that they'd stood together and something had shifted.
Zaya turned back to the group, and her Lumina Bloom erupted.
Not violently. Gently. Like flowers opening at dawn.
Soft light spread from her hands, her chest, creating patterns in the air — floral, delicate, alive. The crowd gasped, but not in fear. In wonder.
Kairo's Thunder Pulse activated too, electricity dancing between his fingers, creating crackling patterns of light that wove through Zaya's blooms.
And Spark grew brighter, bigger, zipping through the air and leaving trails of color that hung like ribbons.
The square was glowing.
Not with neon from signs or screens.
With them.
With choice. With resistance. With the decision to exist loudly in a world that preferred quiet.
"This," Zaya said, her voice carrying over the light and energy, "is what happens when you choose yourself. When you stop dimming. When you remember that you were never supposed to fit. You were supposed to glow."
The crowd stared, some with tears in their eyes, some with huge smiles, all of them feeling something shift inside themselves.
And in that moment, in that square, surrounded by misfits and magic and light, the Mismatch Movement became real.
Not as a trend.
Not as content.
As a choice.
They stayed until the sun started setting, until the streetlights came on and the city began its transition into night. People talked, connected, exchanged numbers and social media handles. Plans were made for another gathering. Ideas were shared.
As the crowd slowly dispersed, people leaving in groups of two and three, still talking, still glowing with the energy of what had happened, Zaya, Kairo, and Spark sat by the fountain.
"That was insane," Kairo said, still buzzing with electricity.
"That was necessary," Zaya corrected.
Spark floated between them, tired but happy. "So what now?"
Zaya looked out at the city, at the people walking away wearing their bright colors and mismatched patterns with new confidence.
"Now it spreads," she said. "Not because we force it. But because people remember. They remember what it feels like to choose themselves."
"The guy's going to come back," Kairo said. "Or someone like him. This isn't over."
"No," Zaya agreed. "It's not over. But it's started. And that's enough."
They sat in comfortable silence as the plaza emptied, the fountain trickling its endless rhythm, the city breathing around them.
Tomorrow, some people would go back to dimming themselves. Tomorrow, the pressure would return. Tomorrow, the world would still prefer people to be smaller, quieter, easier to categorize.
But some people would remember today.
Some people would choose to glow anyway.
And that choice would spread like light through cracks.
Inevitable. Unstoppable.
True.
