The first thing I noticed was the people. A man in a Green Lantern shirt drifted in before me, just another traveler stepping into safe harbor. Dan didn’t miss a beat: “I got this Kit Fisto here for you.” The figure was produced with the care of a relic keeper handing over a sacred object, a deal struck long before my arrival. A little later, another regular entered, and without a word of greeting, Dan called across the shop, “I have boxes right here, man.” These weren’t transactions. They were continuations of long stories, threads woven through decades of loyalty. Watching it unfold felt like catching a glimpse of the roots beneath the tree, hidden from most eyes, but holding everything together. In that moment, it became clear: Warp 9 is more than a store. It’s a legacy that demands you show up to be part of it.

That’s the thing. Warp 9 doesn’t sell online. If you want to be part of this story, you have to put in the legwork. You have to walk through the door, run your hands along the spines of comics, let the dice clatter in your palm, pick up the box of a Gundam kit, thumb through the posters before you bring your prize to the counter. This refusal to bow to digital convenience is a beautiful act of rebellion. Buying online might fill a shelf, but it doesn’t feed the soul. I grew up in the Toy-R-Us Kid generation, when comics were stacked at the grocery store and Dark Horse Star Wars was a staple, when hunting for Micro Machines or Ninja Turtles was a quest in itself. Back then, shopping was discovery. You didn’t just add something to your cart, you unearthed it. Warp 9 is one of the last stands of that tradition, a fortress against a world eager to flatten every experience into a soulless click.

The shelves themselves told their own story as I explored. Magic: The Gathering cards and dice gleamed behind glass. Godzilla loomed proudly beside Dragon Ball Z, Kaiju and Super Saiyans sharing the same air. Above it all, a battalion of Star Wars Black Label figures stared down like mythic guardians while a Xenomorph Funko Pop stared me down, silently daring me to abandon any sense of adult responsibility. My eyes darted between them all, a but in the end, I walked out with a single Black Label Boba Fett figure. Restraint, I told myself, though I knew it was only temporary. That’s the spell of Warp 9. You don’t leave with everything you want. You leave with a reason to come back.

In between browsing, I shared my story with Dan and Kendal, how I’d come here from a different state, where geek culture felt spread thin and distant, more of a trek than a gathering place. Sure, Colorado had its titans, Mile High Comics among them, but saturation was rare. I told them how I wanted immersion, to live in it, near it, to be able to bop over on a random Tuesday and make irresponsible purchases with my adult money, not drive hours to reach the nearest oasis. They understood. That connection is what turns strangers into kin in places like this.

Kendall, on the other hand, burned bright with fire. She spoke with unshakable conviction about her personal crusade against gatekeeping, her joy in seeing new fans step into geekdom for the first time. There’s a revolutionary spirit in her, of art and inclusion that refuses to let the culture calcify into elitism or gatekeeping. Listening to her, I realized this was more than customer service, it’s her philosophy, a vision of geek culture as a living, breathing organism that grows stronger every time someone new finds their place within it. Warp 9 is a whole welcome center.

Dan declined a vid spotlight for himself, and I respected that. Some leaders’ influence is measured more in presence than anything else. His work solidified the decades-long loyalty of the people who keep walking through the door. On the back of his computer, though, I caught a sticky note written in Aurebesh. I read it aloud, flexed my nerd cred and laughed at the translation. No spoilers. That’s something you’ll have to see for yourself when you make the pilgrimage. That little detail, like everything else here, is part of the magic. Dan nodded with the quiet satisfaction of a man who’s been building community long enough to know it’s not about grand gestures, but about the small, repeated ones. Warp 9 is absolutely perfect. It’s a steady heartbeat, a place that fuses us together through story, play, and shared devotion.

If you’re anywhere near Clawson, walk through the doors. Talk to Dan and Kendall and everyone else there. Browse the shelves stacked with comics and figures that hum with memory and possibility. You’ll see what I mean and why I call it what it is: Home base.

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