Chapter 2:
The throbbing in Ellie's skull was a relentless drum, but it was a small price to pay for the miracle in her hands. She stared at the C-, the red ink a testament to a power she couldn't understand. She had rewritten reality. The thought was so terrifying, so exhilarating, that she felt lightheaded.
The blue script, once a source of anxiety, now felt like a user interface. And she had just discovered she had admin privileges.
[NARRATION]: A newfound sense of control settled over her, thin and brittle, but intoxicating.
"Thin and brittle," she muttered, wiping the last traces of tears from her face. "We'll see about that."
She pushed open the bathroom stall, her reflection in the mirror looking back with a glint in its eyes she didn't recognize. The girl who hid was gone. This one was ready to play.
Her first target was simple. The script for the rest of the day was a minefield of potential embarrassments. A presentation in English, a group project in History. She couldn't change the past, but she could certainly edit the present.
In English, as she stood to give her shakily prepared speech on The Great Gatsby, she saw the script ready to condemn her:
[NARRATION]: Her voice trembled on the first word. A few students in the back row exchanged amused glances.
No, she thought, focusing on the line. The headache flared, a sharp spike of pain. She pushed through, mentally dragging the cursor and hitting backspace, then typing a new reality.
[NARRATION]: Her voice was clear and steady, capturing the class's attention.
The change was instantaneous. The nervous quiver in her throat vanished. Her words came out smooth and confident. The bored glances turned into looks of interest. When she finished, Mr. Henderson gave a rare, approving nod. "Well-analyzed, Ellie."
A rush of pure, undiluted power flooded her system, washing away the pain. It was better than any grade.
She was more cautious with the History group project. Her partner, Mark, was notoriously lazy. His script read:
[MARK]: "Yeah, I didn't get a chance to do the research. You got it, right?"
Ellie didn't change his words. Instead, she focused on the stage direction.
[NARRATION]: He shrugged, offering her an apologetic smile.
She edited it.
[NARRATION]: He looked genuinely embarrassed, pulling out a fully printed packet of notes.
"Sorry, Ellie," Mark said, his tone shifting from dismissive to contrite. He unzipped his backpack. "I got a little carried away. I actually did a bunch of research last night. Hope it helps." He handed her a stack of papers.
Ellie took them, her fingers tingling. This was… god-like. She was a ghost in the machine of her own life, fixing bugs as she found them.
But the big test was still to come. Liam.
She saw him at his locker after school, bathed in the golden-hour light coming through the hallway windows. It felt like a scene waiting to be written. His script was mundane:
[LIAM CARTER]: He packed his football gear, thinking about practice.
This was her moment. The one she'd replayed in her head a hundred times. She didn't just want him to notice her. She wanted a perfect meet-cute.
She focused, pouring all her will into the blue text. The headache returned with a vengeance, a blinding white pain that made spots dance in her vision. It felt like trying to lift a car with her mind. This was a Major Edit. But she didn't stop.
[NARRATION]: He packed his football gear, thinking about practice.
She rewrote it, line by line, her breath catching in her chest.
[NARRATION]: As he closed his locker, he noticed Ellie Smith down the hall. She looked pretty in the afternoon light. He decided to finally say hello.
The script glitched violently, the letters stuttering and reforming. For a terrifying second, she saw a flicker of different text: [SYSTEM: UNAUTHORIZED NARRATIVE INJECTION], but it was gone as soon as it appeared, replaced by her new, perfect script.
Liam closed his locker. He turned. His eyes scanned the hallway and landed on her. He smiled, a warm, genuine smile that made Ellie's heart stop.
He walked toward her.
[LIAM CARTER]: "Hey. You're Ellie, right? We have History together."
It was working. It was actually working. The perfect first line.
[NARRATION]: Ellie's breath hitched. This was it.
But something was wrong. The script wasn't finished. New text scrolled into view, the blue light seeming colder, more alien.
[LIAM CARTER]: "I was wondering if you'd maybe want to—"
The sentence cut off. The text dissolved into a chaotic mess of symbols and numbers, like a corrupted file. [%$ERROR# LOADING DIALOGUE...]
Liam's face went slack. His mouth hung open, the charming smile gone, replaced by a blank, empty expression. He stood there, frozen in the middle of the hallway, a buffering human being.
Panic seized Ellie. What had she done?
Then, a new presence entered her peripheral vision. A boy, leaning against the lockers a few feet away, watching her. She hadn't noticed him before.
She risked a glance.
And her blood ran cold.
There was no blue text above his head. No dialogue, no narration. Instead, there was a shimmering, silver cloud of static, like TV snow. And cutting right through that static, two intense, grey eyes were locked directly on her. He knew. He had seen the whole thing.
The boy with the glitching script pushed himself off the lockers. He didn't look at the frozen Liam. He only had eyes for Ellie.
He took a step toward her, his voice low and laced with a warning that felt like a physical blow.
"What," he said, each word deliberate and cold, "do you think you're doing?"