The monster was a blank Microsoft Word document.
It stared at him from his primary monitor, an empty expanse of white, its only feature a single, pulsing, vertical black line. The blinking cursor. The document's title, visible at the top of the window, was: Chris_Day_Resume_FINAL_new_v3.docx.
His [Quest: Gainful Employment] glowed in the corner of his HUD. The quest, which had seemed like a distant, abstract concept when he accepted it, was now very real, and very intimidating. He had an interview. He needed a resume. And he had, for the last hour, produced exactly zero words.
In a moment of despair, he used his [INSPECT] ability on the document itself, a desperate plea for a hint, a clue, a cosmic cheat code... something. The System, in its infinite and deeply unhelpful wisdom, returned a painfully accurate diagnosis.
[Object: Resume (Microsoft Word Document)]
[Status: Empty, Intimidating]
[Active Debuff: [Writer's Block (Severe)]]
[Probable Outcome (92% Chance): Will remain empty for another 45 minutes, after which User will give up and order a pizza.]
Chris stared at the diagnosis. The System wasn't just observing his failure; it was predicting it with a galling, statistical analysis. He felt defiant anger. He would not be a statistic. He would not be beaten by a blank page.
He began to type, his fingers moving with a newfound determination. He filled in his name, his address, his phone number. Easy stuff. Then, he moved to the most terrifying section of all: "Work Experience."
He typed what he knew. "National Guard, Mobile Artillery (2013-2017)." It sounded respectable. It sounded like he had discipline. He conveniently left out the part where he had spent most of his time cleaning the barracks and playing video games on a contraband laptop.
Next. "Restaurant Cook, The Lindy's Country Kitchen (2017-2020)." Another solid, real-world job. He had been a competent, if unenthusiastic, cook.
And then... nothing. A vast, five-year chasm of unemployment. A black hole on the page, representing a period of his life that had been dedicated almost exclusively to the acquisition of digital artifacts in fictional worlds.
His mind raced with unlistable, and completely unbelievable, job titles.
- Level 9 Reality Architect
- Pothole Phantom (Independent Contractor)
- Bureaucracy Bane & Legal Analyst
- Mayoral Campaign Saboteur (Pro Bono)
- Cosmic Support Specialist
He had the most impressive, most reality-bending resume he had ever seen, and he couldn't use a single line of it. The System, sensing his struggle, dinged with an unhelpful tip.
[Hint: Emphasize 'transferable skills'.]
Chris let out a long, frustrated groan. Transferable skills. What was the transferable skill from [debuffing an invasive weed species into extinction]? "Demonstrated ability to implement wide-scale, organically targeted decay protocols"? What about his successful manipulation of the Mayor? "Proven track record of leveraging imbued objects to expose high-level corporate and political corruption"?
He was defeated. The crushing task of quantifying his own lack of a conventional career was too much. The System had been right. He needed a morale-boosting consumable.
He opened the "Buckhannon Eats" app on his phone and ordered his reward for suffering: a large pepperoni pizza from Pizza Palace, with extra cheese and a side of garlic knots. The simple act of ordering food felt like a small, delicious escape from the pressure of his real-world responsibilities.
After placing the order, he began to watch the in-app order tracker, a little animated pizza that moved along a progress bar from "Order Placed" to "In the Kitchen" to "Out for Delivery." It was a satisfying and predictable system.
Then, a new, anxiety-inducing banner appeared at the top of the Pizza Palace page, a flashing, red alert that sent a jolt of fear through his system.
"HURRY! Due to high demand, we're running low on pepperoni!"
He looked at his order, #257. It was third in the preparation queue. The immediate annoyance of potentially receiving a plain cheese pizza when he had specifically, emotionally, and spiritually ordered a pepperoni pizza, completely eclipsed all of his long-term career anxieties. This was not a minor inconvenience. This was a major issue. He needed this.
This topping-related injustice could not be allowed to stand. He was a Level 9 Reality Architect. And he was going to get his pepperoni.
He decided this was a worthy, and necessary, use of his power. He focused his will on the order tracker on his phone screen, targeting not his individual order, but the abstract, conceptual system of "Pizza Palace's Order Queue."
He activated [Minor Probability Manipulation].
A faint, blue shimmer briefly covered his phone. His HUD showed the small, but not insignificant, EP cost. He justified the expenditure as a critical, time-sensitive investment in his own productivity and mental well-being. A man could not be expected to write a resume without the proper meat toppings.
He watched the app with rapt, focused attention. His order, #257, which had been sitting patiently in the third position in the queue, suddenly glitched. It flickered once, twice, and then jumped to the top of the "In the Kitchen" list, leapfrogging two other, earlier orders. A moment later, the little animated pizza zoomed across the progress bar, and the status changed to "Out for Delivery."
He felt a surge of smug, selfish glee. He had won. He had successfully, and with minimal effort, used a power that could manipulate the very fabric of causality to ensure that he got his preferred pizza topping. It was, in that moment, the greatest and most satisfying application of his abilities he could possibly imagine.
He leaned back in his chair, feeling powerful, satisfied, and in control. The chapter of his life where he was a stressed-out, unemployed loser was over. The new chapter, the one where he was a pizza-optimizing, resume-writing professional, had just begun. He happily tracked his pizza's imminent arrival on the little map in the app, a small car icon making its way steadily toward his house.
He was completely unaware that his small act of gluttonous queue-jumping had just forced the harried, overworked kitchen at Pizza Palace to use the last of their pepperoni, then completely spill a large jar of pickled banana peppers into the massive container of their high-quality, whole-milk mozzarella. He had no idea that he had just set the fuse for the great "Big Cheese Crisis of 2025."