The string of successes had left Chris with a feeling he could only describe as... happy. The cat was safe, the lottery ticket was a certified winner, and his social life, once a barren wasteland, was now populated with not one, but four actual, real-life allies. He felt competent. He felt... useful. He hadn't even thought about logging into Vexlorn. He was having more fun in real-life, and he hadn't even left the starting zone yet.
He was in his bedroom, basking in the quiet glow of his accomplishments, idly scrolling through the Buckhannon Record Delta's website on his monitor. He was reading a surprisingly well-written article, a fluff piece titled "Buckhannon's Summer of Miracles: Who is Behind the Town's Sudden Turnaround?" The article detailed the recent spate of inexplicable good fortune that had befallen the town: the spontaneously fixed potholes, the surprisingly successful fire department bake sale, the miraculously repaired public Wi-Fi.
The article quoted a number of happy residents, including Brenda G., who was positively gushing about the town's mysterious new "guardian angel." It was a heartwarming piece, a celebration of things he had secretly orchestrated.
Out of sheer, idle curiosity, he used his [INSPECT] ability on the article itself, wondering if the System would have any interesting metadata to add. The data window that appeared.
[Lore: Mayor Thompson Internal Polling Data]
His heart gave a little thump of excitement. This was the good stuff. This was the secret lore entry. Mayor Bob's private polling information.
[Subject: Mayor Bob Thompson]
[Current Public Approval Rating: 18% (Critical)]
[Key Metrics: -45% Trust, -60% Competence, +80% "Pompous Windbag" Association]
[Status: Humiliated, Vengeful]
[Active Goal: Discredit/Remove Obstacle 'Pothole Phantom']
Chris stared at the data. The mayor wasn't just unpopular; he was a political train wreck. The Pothole Phantom, his own accidental creation, was now more popular and trusted than the actual, elected leader of the town. He realized, with a small shiver, that the mayor wasn't just a comical antagonist anymore. He was a cornered, wounded animal. And cornered animals were dangerous.
=========================================
In the opulent, wood-paneled office at the Buckhannon city hall, Mayor Bob Thompson was not smiling. He was hunched over a large, dusty map spread across his mahogany desk, a single desk lamp casting his face in harsh, angry shadows. He wasn't looking at polling data. He was looking at old, forgotten property surveys and zoning maps, his finger tracing the property lines of a quiet, unassuming lot not too far outside of town, and within sight of his own residence.
He was a man possessed by a burning obsession. He couldn't find the Pothole Phantom. The phantom was a ghost, a whisper, a frustratingly effective and popular enigma. But the phantom's miracles, the strange, inexplicable good luck, all seemed to radiate from a central point. And at the center of that point was the his neck-of-the-woods, where that lazy, good-for-nothing Day guy lived with his parents.
He couldn't prove it. He had no evidence. But in the paranoid, vengeful depths of his gut, he knew. He had to strike back. He had to hurt the phantom. And if he couldn't hurt the phantom directly, he would hurt the ground upon which the phantom walked.
His finger stopped, tapping on a small, decades-old discrepancy in the survey, an almost unnoticeable flaw regarding the placement of the Woody family's garage. It was a technicality, a forgotten rule from a bygone era of the town's history. It was a petty, and completely legal weapon.
A cruel smile crossed the Mayor's face. He had found it. He had found his weapon.
=========================================
A few hours later, a nondescript, white sedan with the Upshur County logo emblazoned on the driver's side door pulled down the drive to the Woody residence. It rolled to a stop at the end of the gravel driveway, the engine idling. A nervous-looking man in a polo shirt, also bearing the county logo, got out of the car. He held a thick, official-looking manila envelope in his hand like it was a live grenade.
Chris, Misty, and Pete were in the living room, watching television, when the doorbell rang. Pete, a frown of mild annoyance on his face, got up to answer it.
They heard a brief, muffled exchange at the door. Pete's voice was a low, confused rumble. The other man's was a high, reedy murmur. A moment later, Pete walked back into the living room, the thick, official-looking envelope in his hand. His face was pale, his expression a mixture of confusion and a dawning dread.
"What is it, Pete?" Misty asked, her voice laced with a sudden concern.
"I don't know," Pete said, his voice a quiet rasp. He sat down heavily in his recliner, the envelope resting on his lap. He stared at it for a long moment, as if he could somehow discern its contents through the thick paper. Then, with a steadying breath, he tore it open.
He pulled out a thick sheaf of papers, stapled together in the top corner. The top page was emblazoned with the official seal of the Buckhannon Zoning Commission. The words, printed in a severe, all-caps, bold font, seemed to leap off the page.
FINAL WARNING & CEASE AND DESIST ORDER
Pete began to read, his eyes scanning the dense, legalistic text. Chris and Misty watched him, the silence in the room heavy. As Pete read, the color drained from his face. An almost imperceptible tremor started in his hands.
"This is a joke," he whispered, his voice a choked, disbelieving sound. "This has to be a joke."
"Pete, what is it?" Misty asked, her voice rising with anxiety.
Pete looked up from the document, his eyes wide and unfocused. "The garage," he said, his voice trembling with a simmering rage. "They're saying the garage... my workshop... is in violation of a 1985 zoning ordinance." He let out a short, incredulous laugh. "They're saying it was built six inches too close to the property line."
He continued, his voice growing stronger, fueled by the absurdity of the accusation. "And they're ordering us to pay a fine. A ten-thousand-dollar fine. And... and to demolish it within thirty days."
He was left speechless, the papers trembling in his hand. His garage. The place where he had spent countless hours fixing, building, and creating. The place that was more a part of him than the rest of the house. They were threatening to take it away from him. Over six inches.
As Pete was fuming, his mind a whirlwind of rage, Chris was working. He was processing the situation through the geeply analytical lens of his System interface. He focused his [INSPECT (Tier 2)] ability on the official notice in Pete's hand, activating the [Causal Analysis] module. He needed to know the document's true origin.
The data window that appeared was a stark confirmation of his worst fears.
[Object: Zoning Commission Order (ZCO-1985-B)]
[Status: Legally Valid (Signed by Judge Rose)]
[Originating Command: Executive Action, Office of the Mayor (B. Thompson)]
[Causal Chain: Mayor Thompson Humiliation -> Vengeful Impulse -> Zoning Ordinance Weaponization -> ZCO-1985-B]
The order did not come from the Zoning Commission. The order came directly from Mayor Thompson. This was not a bureaucratic oversight. This was a targeted, personal attack.
A new quest notification appeared in his HUD.
[Quest: Bureaucratic Battle]
[Objective: Nullify the unjust Zoning Commission order against the Woody Residence.]
[Reward: 300 XP, +20 Family Standing, ???]
Chris looked at the quest. He looked at the damning causal chain analysis. And then he looked at Pete's face. He saw the quiet, furious, and helpless rage of a good man being crushed by a corrupt, broken government system.
The Pothole Phantom and #MusketGate had been fun. They had been mostly impersonal, with the mayor as the self-sabotaging final boss.
This was different. This was a direct attack on his family. This was a violation of his home. This was an assault on Pete's personal sanctuary. The civic pride he had felt from his recent good deeds was gone, burned away and replaced by personal anger.
Mayor Bob just made the biggest mistake of his political career. He had made this personal.
It was no longer a game. It was a war.