The afternoon's fragile peace was shattered by a sound from the backyard. It was a loud, repetitive sound.
RRR... RRR... RRR...
The rhythmic tearing sound of a lawnmower pull-cord being yanked with more hope than mechanical justification. Each pull was followed by a wheezing, non-committal sputter from the engine, a sound that promised nothing and delivered less. Chris, who had been enjoying a moment of quiet contemplation in his bedroom, winced. He knew that sound.
The sputtering was punctuated by another, more colorful set of sounds: the increasingly creative and guttural cursing of Pete Woody.
"Come on, you rusted bucket of..." RRR... RRR... "...start, you son of a..." sputter... wheeze..."
Chris sighed. He pushed himself out of his gaming chair and walked to the window that looked out to the backyard. Pete was locked in a losing battle with the family's old lawnmower, a faded red machine that had been old when Chris was in high school. The grass in the backyard was, as Pete had so eloquently put it, turning into a jungle.
Pete, his face a blotchy red from exertion, planted his feet in the overgrown grass. He gripped the plastic handle of the pull-cord with both hands. He took a deep, preparatory breath, a man about to attempt a feat of great strength.
"Last chance, you piece of junk," Pete growled at the inanimate object.
He gave the cord one final, mighty heave, putting his entire back, his shoulders, and a significant portion of his mortal soul into the effort.
The mower let out a single, pathetic cough. A puff of thick, oily black smoke erupted from the exhaust, staining the air with the smell of defeat. It was followed by a sad, final clank from deep within the engine, a sound like a tiny metal heart breaking. The pull-cord, its tension gone, went limp in Pete's hand.
The mower was officially dead.
Pete stared at the silent machine for a long, heavy moment. The silence was broken only by the chirping of a distant bird, a sound that felt, in this moment, entirely too cheerful. Pete's shoulders slumped. Then, in unadulterated frustration, he kicked one of the mower's hard plastic wheels. The thud was unsatisfying. The mower didn't even wobble. It just sat there, a silent, victorious monument to planned obsolescence.
Chris watched the whole sad drama unfold from his window, feeling a mixture of secondhand frustration and detached amusement. He had a sudden, vivid memory of either he or Pete waging this exact same war every summer for the last ten years. But this time felt different. This time felt final.
A few minutes later, Pete stomped into the garage, his boots heavy on the concrete floor. Chris, his curiosity getting the better of him, trailed curiously behind, lurking in the doorway. The garage was Pete's world. It smelled of motor oil, sawdust, and the sharp, chemical tang of fertilizer. It was the smell of chores, a scent that always made Chris feel vaguely guilty.
Pete threw the red plastic gas can onto a cluttered shelf with a clatter. He grabbed an old, grease-stained rag from a hook and began wiping his hands, muttering to himself.
"Piece of junk. Knew I should have gotten rid of it last year." He ran a hand through his thinning hair, his frustration giving way to a weary resignation. "Three hundred bucks, at least, for a decent one. Probably more now, with the god-damned tariffs." He wasn't talking to Chris, or even to himself. He was just broadcasting his thoughts into the dusty air of the garage. "Money we don't really have to be throwing around right now. The property taxes went up again, and Misty wants to get the driveway regraveled..."
Chris listened, a strange feeling twisting in his gut. This wasn't just about a broken lawnmower. It was about money. It was about the quiet, constant stress of household finances that he rarely had to confront. He saw a genuine problem that needed a solution, that affected the entire household. This was a chance to actually help. To contribute something useful. He leaned against the doorframe, watching his step-father. He decided to run a quick diagnostic.
[INSPECT]
The familiar blue data window materialized in his vision, superimposed over Pete's back.
[Name: Peter "Pete" Woody]
[LVL 28]
[Status: Frustrated, Resigned]
[Current Mood: Annoyed (Financial Stress +20)]
[Dominant Thought: "Should I try to fix it? No, the starter's shot. Cheaper to just buy a new one. Where are we gonna get the extra cash? Maybe I can sell the old fishing gear I never use..."]
The Financial Stress +20 modifier hit Chris harder than he expected. It quantified the problem, turning Pete's vague grumbling into a concrete, measurable debuff. Chris felt a pang of empathy, a feeling he wasn't accustomed to associating with his gruff, often-critical step-father. He was looking at a man who was genuinely worried, and Chris was the only person in the world who knew the precise statistical weight of that worry.
And in that moment, an idea sparked in Chris's mind. It was a solution so elegant, so outside the bounds of Pete's reality, that it felt like a bolt of lightning. It was a solution Pete could never comprehend, a fix that didn't involve coupons, or payment plans, or selling old fishing gear.
A slow, confident grin spread across his face. He had the power to solve this.
With a surge of excitement, Chris mentally opened the [Item Creation] menu. The sleek, beautiful interface filled his vision. He scrolled past the terrifyingly complex, grayed-out blueprints for things like [Antimatter Containment Field] and [Sentient Bagel Toaster] until he found the section labeled "Basic Unlocked Blueprints."
And there it was. The blueprint he had seen before, the one he had so arrogantly tried to conjure out of thin air.
[Self-Propelled Lawnmower (Gasoline Model)]
He selected it. A shimmering, 3D model of a brand-new push mower appeared in the center of his vision. It was a beautiful, generic red, its engine gleaming, its wheels a pristine black. He could rotate the model with a mental command, examining it from every angle. It was perfect.
He studied the required materials list, which now glowed with a new sense of purpose and possibility. This wasn't an insurmountable obstacle anymore. It was a shopping list. It was a recipe.
[Required Resources:]
[- 15kg Refined Metal (Iron/Steel)]
[- 3kg Polymer (Plastic)]
[- 1x Small Combustion Engine (Functional)]
[- 2L Gasoline]
[- 1x Spark Plug]
He broke it down in his mind, his brain automatically shifting into resource-management mode. Gasoline? Easy. The red can on the shelf was half-full. Spark plug? Pete had a whole drawer of them in his toolbox, meticulously organized by size. Polymer? The garage was filled with old plastic junk, cracked storage bins, and broken garden tools. That would be simple. The engine was the tricky part. The old mower's engine was dead. But maybe... maybe he could salvage the parts?
His eyes settled on the first, most daunting requirement on the list, [- 15kg Refined Metal (Iron/Steel)]. Fifteen kilograms. That was about thirty-three pounds. That was a lot of metal. Where was he supposed to get that much iron?
As he focused on the material list, his intent solidifying from a vague idea into a concrete plan, a new notification appeared in his HUD. The System, recognizing his intent to gather resources for a specific blueprint, had formalized the task. It had given him a quest.
[Quest: Scavenger Hunt]
[Objective: Acquire all necessary resources to create [Self-Propelled Lawnmower (Gasoline Model)]]
[Reward: 150 XP, +1 Crafting Skill]
Chris stared at the quest notification, a thrill running through him. It was a quest generated by his own actions, his own desires. The XP reward was decent, but it was the other part that made his heart beat a little faster. +1 Crafting Skill. That was a permanent stat increase. A tangible reward for a tangible task. He was not just solving a problem; he was leveling up his ability to solve future problems.
He looked from the new quest glowing in his log to Pete, who was now staring forlornly at the dead lawnmower in the backyard, a look of defeat on his face. A new sense of determination, clear and sharp, filled Chris. He could fix this. He could solve this real, tangible issue and contribute something valuable to the family. He could ease that Financial Stress +20 debuff, not with a loan, but with his System access.
He wouldn't say anything to Pete. The joy was in the secret, in the quiet, behind-the-scenes application of incredible power to solve a mundane problem.
He gave a quiet, confident nod, not to Pete, but to himself. He mentally accepted the quest. The text in his log glowed with a soft, confirmatory light.
The first step on his new grind had just begun, and not for levels or epic loot. It was for scrap metal.