It was one of those nights where the rain didn't just fall, it hurled itself at the earth like it had one of the worst personal grudge to ever exist. Outside, thunder cracked and rolled through the air like some pissed-off god slamming furniture around. But in a certain dimly lit room, curtains drawn, the chaos outside was nothing more than background noise for one very specific brand of madness.
A teenager sat hunched over a desk cluttered with empty snack wrappers, mechanical pencils in various states of disassembly, and a battered spiral notebook. The glow from his cheap desk lamp painted everything in a warm, jaundiced hue, making the whole scene look like a conspiracy theorist's lair. And in the middle of it all, he was giggling, not the restrained, polite kind, but the giddy, slightly deranged snickering of someone who'd been alone with their own thoughts for far too long.
In front of him lay the beginnings of his "master plan", a glorious, ridiculous, caffeine-fueled idea: he was going to make a Worm CYOA fanfic. Not for fame. Not for money. No, his goals were far more noble and dignified: to rake in internet points and inflate his already delicate ego into a blimp.
"Let's see, let's see… Right, Worm CYOA v4 it is, easy to understand and ostrich of straight forward," he muttered, mangling his words without realizing, eyes flicking down the printed list like he was reading sacred scripture.
"Scenario… Gestation. That's starting fifteen CP, character points, baby, and fifteen SP, shard points. Path? Rogue. Don't want to pay for some boring civilian identity. Besides, mercenary work? Badass as hell. Good cash, and I can morally justify anything I do by saying 'it's just business.'"
He scribbled messily, stopped, glanced at his own handwriting, and visibly winced. It looked like the pen had been held by someone having a seizure during an earthquake.
"Origin… Insert, male, obviously. Can change it later if I feel like it. Age? Teenager. No way am I starting life as some creaky old fart."
He kept writing, muttering little asides under his breath like a mad scientist deciding where to bolt on the extra limbs.
"Civilian identity's gonna be a high schooler, probably Arcadia. I'll swing by Winslow sometimes, 'accidentally' bump into Taylor first, then Sophia second… and maybe screw both of them. Why not? Gotta give the comment section something to scream about."
He tapped his pen against the paper, pausing to consider personality traits. "Shitty personality… yeah. People will love to hate him, or hate to love him. Maybe both at the same time. Chaos, baby."
Back to scribbling. "Skills… -5 CP for marksmanship, obviously. -1 and -2 for banter and parkour. Leaves me with six CP left. Shard is gonna be a Natural Trigger, +3 CP. For flaws… three Rough Starts, that's +6 CP, 2 CP each. Also three Worst Days Ever, +6 CP and +3 SP. Endbringer Target, +3 CP and +4 SP, 'cause why not make my SI's life a living hell from day one? And cherry on top: Slaughterhouse Nine, +4 CP +2 SP, for the recruitment potential."
He yawned loudly, the kind of jaw-popping yawn that made his eyes water, and reached for his coffee. Not some fancy latte, just powdered instant sludge that smelled like burnt dirt. Fourteen years old, guzzling caffeine at 3 a.m. like a grad student during finals. But hey, who the hell was going to stop him?
"I now have twenty-five CP and twenty-four SP. Neat. Now, perks…" he said, cracking his knuckles like he was about to type a manifesto. "Power Slot, -1 SP. Who doesn't want an extra slot on top of three? Second Trigger for a single power, -4 CP, -3 SP. Plot Convenience, -1 CP. Secret Lair, -2 CP, 'cause what self-respecting cape doesn't have one? Voice in My Head, -2 SP, just so I can annoy my shard on purpose. Blind Spot, -3 CP, -4 SP."
Another yawn. Another sip. Another grimace.
"For the gift… 'Interludes.' I mean, obviously. Who doesn't want to read about what everyone else is doing while you're unconscious? Powers: four slots, one upgrade thanks to the Second Trigger perk. Fourteen SP left, let's go shopping. Shaker power 'Pocket Room' for -1 SP, basically an inventory slot the size of a small apartment. Yes, please."
He glanced at the time. 3:12 AM.
"Trump power, 'Paramount', grab any non-Trump power worth seven points or less? Busted. -10 SP. Slap a Second Trigger on that. Fifteen-minute cooldown? Pfft, I'll survive."
He muttered something incoherent, probably to his future self, and drained another mouthful of bitter coffee. Mug almost empty. He clutched it like a lifeline. "Three SP left. -2 for 'Presence,' a Thinker power, 25-meter awareness radius. Cheap and useful. Last SP? 'Infinite Ammo.' Self-explanatory. Imagine the possibilities…"
The giggle that followed could have earned him a restraining order.
Path specifics: "Public Display" for the main job. Side gigs? "Product Sales" and "Bodyguard Duty." Perks: Thriving Business (-3 CP), Subordinates (-3 CP), Act of Neutrality (-3 CP), and Corporation (-3 CP). "Fourteen-year-old CEO with a secret base, a small army, and the moral compass of a brick. Perfect."
Skills: Investigation and Hacking. "Yawwwn."
The yawns were getting more frequent now. His vision swam. Blurred edges crept in like a bad TV signal. Panic sparked, and he jerked his head left, then right, trying to clear it. No luck.
His hand groped for the armrest, but the strength just wasn't there. His body slid sideways, collapsing. Darkness swarmed his sight.
Somewhere, he thought he heard his mom shouting, his dad's footsteps pounding the floor. Too late.
He closed his eyes, bracing for whatever was coming. But it wasn't cold, or pain, or nothingness.
It was wind.
It was the stench of trash and rot, like an alleyway after a week of rain. The faint, metallic tang of blood. A low, steady snoring from somewhere nearby. The rumble of car tires on wet pavement.
And when he opened his eyes…