LightReader

Chapter 3 - Chauffeurs, Curtains, and Capitalism

Hospitals are great at the life part. They are less good at the leaving part. Papers were signed with the solemnity of treaties. Hargrave—the midwife who runs the entire cosmology with her forearms—performed a last sacrament of tucks and nods. The Household emissary rehearsed the exit like a military parade for birds.

The hedges outside had formed a union. Rustle, click, whisper, swear, repeat. A policeman attempted to teach a reporter the concept of "line." The reporter attempted to teach the policeman the concept of "exception." Both passed their classes with distinction.

My mother adjusted her lipstick the way queens adjust borders. "Ready?" she asked me, as if I were the variable in the plan.

I answered by producing a smile that could sell soap to a glacier.

We took the stairs (they do flatter everyone—damn the man), then slid through an arcade of flashbulbs and persuasion. Household did that dance bureaucrats do where they're invisible and also between you and everything. Counselor Takeda—Hiroshi, I'd learned by eavesdropping like a gentleman—ran interference with the unhurried righteousness of a bridge.

The car waiting was long, black, and smug about it. The driver's cap had opinions. Inside smelled like leather that had never known failure. Hiroshi installed my mother with courtly precision, then me, then himself. Doors shut with the whisper of expensive decisions.

London passed the windows like a film that regretted being in black and white. Wet cobbles. Sober shopfronts. Women with hats that looked like negotiations. I watched the city, tried to memorize the exact color of the sky when it pretends to be blue and fails handsomely.

The System tapped my skull like a polite librarian.

> FP: 5.2

sources: departure photo, "Little Prince" headline coalescence, a florist who went to war.

Respectable. Enough to buy… a biscuit.

I found a quiet corner inside my own head and opened the Menu. A clean panel unfolded like a gentleman's pocketknife.

[CHARACTER SHEET]

Name: Alexander Hiroshi Takeda Andrade ("Alex")

Age: 2 days (going on insufferable)

Titles:

— The Little Prince (working): +2% friendliness on first meeting (UK press only). Cosmetic: tabloids deploy crowns; cannot be removed; condolences.

Stats (throttled by body):

STR 0.23 — capable of defeating one (1) blanket

DEX 0.12 — optimistic

CON 0.31 — durable gumdrop

INT 1.00 — "two lifetimes, one head (bandwidth-limited by skull circumference)"

WIS 0.48 — house-trained pending

CHA "weaponized" — peer-reviewed

Skills:

— Recruitment Eye Lv.1 (Manual Focus; Green highlight; Potential ping: yes/no)

— Passive: Baby Diplomatic Immunity (adults excuse everything; stacks with blanket)

Resources:

— Fame Points (FP): 5.2

— Life-Impact: 0 (no canonical deviations yet; try not to start with arson)

"Good to have a manual," I murmured internally. The System declined to preen, but I felt the urge in the code.

[SHOP] opened like a cathedral full of "not for you."

A marbled hall of slots and cards unfolded—serene, expensive, fully prepared to break my spirit. Each item floated in its little reliquary with a price that made my 5.2 look like lint.

I scrolled. I laughed (silently; my diaphragm isn't unionized yet).

SKILLS

— Soccer 101 — 500 FP

(Because kicking things is harder than men named Reginald pretend.)

— Singing 101 — 500 FP

(Autotune not included; it is 1955.)

— Batman: Detective Knowledge — 400,000 FP

(World's greatest… eventually. Cape not included. Parents sold separately.)

— Wonder Woman: Fighting Experience — 600,000 FP

(Tiara optional. Truth mandatory.)

— Muten Roshi: Ki Knowledge — 900,000 FP

("Do not blow up the moon." — legal)

— Shino Aburame: Chakra Affinity — 75,000 FP

(Bugs are friends, not snacks.)

— Tony Stark: Intelligence Suite — 1,500,000 FP

(Warning: swag may exceed human tolerance.)

— Captain America: Fitness Level — 250,000 FP

(Side effects: excessive decency, sprinting toward grenades.)

TEMPLATES (bundled abilities + baggage)

— Gwen Tennyson Template — 2,100,000 FP

(energy/magic control; alien DNA party tricks; childhood ends early)

— Pelé Template — 1,200,000 FP

(Football divinity; sainthood pressure; knees file grievances)

— Neil Armstrong Template — 350,000 FP

(One small step; zero margin for error; moon dust forever)

— Napoleon Template — 500,000 FP

(Foresight, logistics, exile starter pack)

— Hisoka (HxH) Template — 700,000 FP

(Nen brilliance +… "interest" in potential. HR not thrilled.)

— John Constantine Template — 650,000 FP

(Magic + tab at every bar + existential mildew.)

ARTIFACTS & NONSENSE

— Speed Force (Lease) — 3,500,000 FP

(Terms: "Don't.")

— Original Mona Lisa (Wet) — 800,000 FP

(Pick-up: Leonardo's studio, 1503. Paint: not dry. Complications: yes.)

— Crazy Dave's AI — 120,000 FP

(Speaks fluent lawn; will absolutely judge your hat.)

— Virus T — 50,000 FP

(Refunds unavailable, apologies insincere.)

— Lightsaber (Authentic) — 200,000 FP

(Batteries: kyber. Manual: "Try not to.")

— Green Lantern Ring — 1,600,000 FP

(Batteries sold separately; "will" must be house-trained.)

— Thor's Hammer — 1,800,000 FP

(Worthiness check performed by hammer. HR not available.)

Every price tag slapped me like a rich uncle. I checked the filter for "Within Budget."

Results (≤ 5.2 FP):

— Aspirational Stare Lv.1 — 3 FP

(Increases adult confessional output by 4%.)

— Cry On Cue (Subtle) — 2 FP

(Deploy for room-clearing or sympathy farming; cooldown: nap.)

— Micro-Endorsements: Pacifiers — 5 FP

(5% chance of "seen with" mention in society pages.)

The System coughed in Helvetica.

> Advisory: Purchases at this tier yield trivial returns. Recommend hoarding.

"You heard the accountant," I told myself. "We're a broke baby window-shopping for a lightsaber."

The car glided through Belgravia; the street performed wealth. Hiroshi's townhouse waited like a sentence with very proper punctuation. Tall windows. Brass that knew polish by first name. A door knocker shaped like an apology.

The housekeeper—Mrs. Whitby, built of starched mercy—opened before the driver could knock. My mother received a hug disguised as etiquette. Hiroshi received a nod that meant you pay the bills on time. I received a smile that said you will break things and I will pretend not to see.

Inside: hush, chandeliers, carpets that made footsteps feel like rumors. A portrait of somebody's ancestor watching me like don't embarrass me in my own frame. I loved him instantly.

My room was an ambush. White crib, absurdly tiny clothes—ALEXANDER embroidered on fabric like a threat—shelves already plotting to be full of books. A rocking horse appraised me and found me small. A stuffed menagerie lined up like a welcoming committee that had overprepared.

I scratched at the Menu again. [MISSIONS] grayed out, as if the System had put a velvet rope across the doorway. [UPGRADES] showed the Eye at Lv.1 and a progress bar that moved like Parliament. [INVENTORY] listed: one blanket (effective), one sock (missing its mate; philosophy questions), one hat (aspiring to crown), one heirloom spoon (teething destiny).

I gave the Eye a workout to earn my supper. Focus—everything softened, they stayed crisp. My mother—green like a light left on for late arrivals. Hiroshi—green like a gate that opens if you push correctly. Mrs. Whitby—neutral unless I wanted smuggling done with kindness, which I did, but later. The driver—professional ghost. The portrait—judgmental wallpaper. The rocking horse—plot foreshadowing (don't ask me how; I just know).

"Tomorrow," my mother announced to the room in general, "we nap like saints and eat like sinners."

"Schedule adjusted," Hiroshi said. "No visitors before eleven. Newspapers filtered. Household… reduced."

"Tell them to bring pastries if they insist," she added.

"Treaties," he countered.

"Pastries are treaties," she said, beaming at me. I smiled like I had invented croissants.

The System slid a receipt under my eyelids:

> Homecoming Summary

FP: 5.2 → 6.1

sources: arrival mention, social column nickname lock, a neighbor who "happened to stroll."

Shop Affordability: "Stop it."

Eye Proficiency: 6% (manual focus practice recorded)

I rummaged deeper. [TITLES] expanded:

— The Little Prince (working): +2% friendliness (UK press).

— Healthy Boy (cosmetic): doctors repeat it until it is true.

— Baby With Opinions (cosmetic): photos sell 8% better if eyebrows cooperate.

I checked [SKILLS] hoping the universe had slipped me a freebie.

— Recruitment Eye Lv.1 (Focus; Green; Potential ping yes/no)

— Passive: Baby Diplomatic Immunity

— NEW (latent): Media Gravity — "Cameras drift toward Subject at low speed." (Unlocked by existing.)

Useful. Dangerous. Exactly my brand.

Afternoon settled like a cat. Whitby brought a bottle with the moral seriousness of Communion. I drank like an influencer. The Eye stayed holstered unless I asked; polite tools are love languages. Hiroshi adjusted curtains with battlefield precision and then—finally—took off his jacket. Beneath: sleeves rolled two turns, competence revealed like forearms in a scandal.

My mother hummed a line that would be a hit if the world behaved. I took my shot.

"Shop," I whispered at the interface again, because hope is free. The cathedral returned, smug and glittering.

Recommended (Algorithm):

— Singing 101 — 500 FP (synergy: maternal; timeline: early)

— Soccer 101 — 500 FP (synergy: national; timeline: medium)

— Pelé Template — 1,200,000 FP (note: out of your league, adorable)

— Gwen Tennyson Template — 2,100,000 FP (note: will complicate christenings)

— Batman Detective Knowledge — 400,000 FP (note: could discover own diapers; pros/cons)

— Muten Roshi: Ki Knowledge — 900,000 FP (note: moon clause)

— Green Lantern Ring — 1,600,000 FP (note: fashion-forward)

— Lightsaber — 200,000 FP (note: babyproofing impossible)

I sorted by "Most Irresponsible."

Top Results:

— Virus T — 50,000 FP ("Live a little." — the worst voice in your head)

— Speed Force (Lease) — 3,500,000 FP (Terms: "No.")

— Original Mona Lisa (Wet) — 800,000 FP (Bring towels)

The System added, in its driest tone yet: Recommendation: no.

"Fine," I told it. "We grind."

I closed the cathedral and opened [LIFE-IMPACT]. A flat zero stared back at me like an accountant who disapproves of fun. Alter the expected line of someone's life, and the meter moves. The examples it wouldn't give me yet bloomed anyway in the back of my head: prevent a funeral, rewrite a career, steal a disaster from history and sell it as a miracle. Not tonight. Tonight, milk.

Evening stretched. The radio in the parlor confessed to another shower over Kent. Somewhere a neighbor practiced piano with the confident mediocrity of a child who's been promised cake either way. Whitby folded towels like origami swans. Hiroshi drafted a note in Japanese with lines so straight they could host parades.

I rehearsed my arsenal:

— Smile: now lethal in three counties.

— Frown: deploy sparingly; devastating on editors.

— Hiccup: trademark pending.

— Focus: Eye on. World softens. Mother and Hiroshi stay. Green means go.

That was the one sentence the System had given me about the Eye, and it was enough: Focus to use. See potential or a green highlight on safe targets. Everything beyond that I'd earn or learn.

"Tomorrow," my mother said, half-asleep, "we practice walking. He can supervise."

"I will file the forms," Hiroshi murmured, which is diplomat for I will carry him until he believes he is levitating.

I checked [Within Budget] one last time, because I am a catastrophically optimistic person trapped in a grapefruit. The shop sighed and offered me the same three crumbs: Aspirational Stare Lv.1, Cry On Cue, Micro-Endorsements: Pacifiers.

"Hard pass," I said. "We're saving for Soccer 101 and a future where I don't need to bribe a ball."

The System, who knows a declaration of intent when it sees one, pinned a sticky note to my skull:

> Short-Term Goals (User-authored):

— Hit 500 FP (purchase: Soccer 101 or Singing 101).

— Level Eye to Lv.2 (more detail, less guesswork).

— Earn first Life-Impact tick (harmless deviation; no explosions).

"See?" I told it. "Responsible."

It declined to comment and quietly disabled Virus T from my "Recently Viewed."

Night arrived wearing rain like jewelry. The townhouse exhaled its heat into the chill. Whitby dimmed lights with the reverence of a chapel closing. My mother kissed my forehead with an authority you can't fake. Hiroshi stood a long moment at the door, like a man memorizing a painting he is about to guard with his career.

I focused one last time. The world did that soft retreat. They did that stubborn staying. Green said go—to sleep, to tomorrow, to the long, ridiculous project of being famous on purpose.

I let the Eye drop, not because I was done, but because good tools deserve rest as much as hands do.

I slept like a scandal that hasn't broken yet.

The hedges rested. The numbers climbed. Somewhere in a cathedral of "not for you," a lightsaber waited, offended.

More Chapters