The last message hit below the belt, instantly cooling my enthusiasm. In total from cranes I could get a measly 10 OP. Ten! And I'd already set myself up for meditative grinding, like in that fairy tale about a thousand cranes for wish fulfillment... Eh, no easy paths for me. At least, this was unambiguously hinted at by the "simple" origami note. Consequently, if I make something more serious, there's a chance to start farming OP again.
Had to climb into the internet after all, though for a completely different reason than I originally planned. After spending half an hour viewing sites and video tutorials, I regretfully stated: my skills definitely weren't enough to create a conditional Elephant and especially a Dragon, whose diagrams required a hundred steps. And not just steps, but steps backed by terrible words like: "bird base" with additional folds, "reverse folds," "rabbit ear," "wet folding"... This was already some kind of higher mathematics, not handicraft.
But a solution was found. Elegant and, as it seemed to me, ideally suited for farming, modular origami. Most obvious option, kusudama, a paper ball. The same "Electra" kusudama, if tutorials are to be believed, required 30 identical modules. Each module's complexity was slightly higher than a crane, but their totality should give the needed result.
I tore out another sheet from the notebook and set to work. And immediately encountered a problem. My fingers, accustomed to rough work, to heavy tool handles, seemed like clumsy sausages. I cursed when once again I couldn't make an even, clean fold. I, a person who could assemble a furniture panel with eyes closed or turn a perfect table leg, couldn't handle a damn piece of paper! Absurd!
Somehow, ruining a couple sheets and spending a heap of nerves, I still got the hang of it. By my calculations, creating one kusudama would take about half an hour. Only there was another catch, sheets in the notebook were rapidly running out. Have to go to the store. Rummaging through shorts pockets and desk drawers, I scraped together a couple crumpled dollars and a handful of change. Not much. The nearest 24-hour shop met me with the smell of cheap coffee and disinfectant. Under the indifferent gaze of an Indian cashier, I chose the simplest pack of office paper. Returning along deserted night streets lit by rare streetlights, I felt like a complete idiot, because potential risks from going out onto this troubled district's night street absolutely weren't worth it. I didn't risk going out to throw away trash, but risked it for buying paper, would be funny if this backfires on me (joke)...
Hell's Kitchen at night was a completely different place than during the day. It shed the mask of an ordinary not-rich district and showed its true face. From a dark alley came the crash of an overturned trash bin and angry cat hissing. On the corner, under the flickering neon of "Joe's Pizza" sign, stood a group of guys in baggy clothes. They weren't doing anything illegal, just smoking and quietly talking, but from them emanated an aura of lurking threat. I quickened my pace, trying not to meet their eyes. In this world one sideways glance could be enough to get a knife under the ribs.
The air was thick and humid, smelling of rotten garbage, cheap food from 24-hour eateries and exhaust fumes. Somewhere in the distance a siren wailed again, an integral soundtrack of this city, and this district in particular. I suddenly acutely realized my vulnerability. In my old body I wasn't Hercules, but could stand up for myself. Ten years of physical labor did their job. But now I was in the body of a frail student who, judging by memories, last fought in middle school, and unsuccessfully at that. Any of those guys on the corner could break me in half. And no Devil of Hell's Kitchen I mentioned earlier would come to help. Matt Murdock may in some sense be a hero, but he's not all-seeing and all-powerful. He deals with gangs and killers, not saving every idiot who decided to walk through the night district. This walk sobered me better than any cold shower. I needed not just "technology" from the system. I needed strength. Or at least something that would help me protect this fragile new life.
Returning to the apartment, I set to work with new zeal. Forty minutes of concentration, teeth-grinding and quiet cursing, and the first kusudama was ready. It turned out slightly lopsided, but quite recognizable.
[Created art piece: Origami. Complexity: Medium. Received +3 OP!]
Excellent! Medium complexity counted, and the three-point reward was a pleasant bonus. Though for the same 40 minutes I could have made more cranes if not for the limit, the main thing was different, OP farming moved from dead center.
Glancing at the clock on the laptop, two AM, I understood what I'd occupy myself with in the coming hours. The thought of college flashed and faded. Thursday, school day... However much I considered this college a useless waste of time, it could become a source of information. Mary Jane studies there, and Harry Osborn possibly comes for her. These aren't just extras anymore, but key, albeit secondary figures. So visiting college is worth it. And now, grinding!
The next hours flew by like in a fog. Hands mechanically folded modules, connected them into finished balls. To not go crazy from monotony, I turned on a news channel on the laptop. I got so skilled that one kusudama took no more than twenty minutes. The first ten I assembled by half past five in the morning. But the eleventh ball met me with another unpleasant surprise.
[Created art piece: Origami. Complexity: Medium. Received +1 OP!]
[Warning! OP earning limit in the area of creating medium complexity Origami partially exhausted! For the next 9 items will be awarded +1 OP.]
So now I have 10 + (10 × 3) + 1 = 41 OP. And 9 more points I can squeeze out of these paper balls. Total, 50. Exactly half the journey. Not so bad. Plus, modules can be folded during college classes. So suffering here and now made no sense, especially since I was starting to feel irresistibly sleepy. John's memory prompted that tomorrow three classes, starting at 10:15. Half an hour walk to college. Meaning I have three-four hours for sleep.
Collapsing on the couch, I, before departing to Morpheus's realm for the second time in these insane twenty-four hours, reflected. My life turned not just upside down, it did a somersault through my ears. Marvel world, strange, not too generous system, new body... Remembering my old, measured life, I felt a pang of melancholy. There I created things you could touch, that served people, though primarily myself. A solid table, reliable roof. Tangible, real result. And here? I'm creating fragile paper crafts for ephemeral points to get an unknown "technology." There's some evil irony in this. As if I traded real craftsmanship for a video game with dubious prize.
What if this Marvel version is one of the darkest? What if Galactus is already flying to Earth? Or, God forbid, this is the zombie apocalypse universe? Better Warhammer than Marvel-Zombies... While I pondered cosmic horrors, from below from the street came the ring of a broken bottle and a drunk shout. Thin walls didn't protect from noise. I felt a cold draft from a gap in the window frame. The gust of cold air sobered me a bit and thoughts returned to comprehending what happened to me, particularly regarding the creation process.
Fingers still remembered the sensation of paper, monotonous, precise movements. I made hundreds of identical modules during the night. And with each new fold grew a dull irritation, transitioning into quiet rage. This was wrong. Creation, in my understanding, was always a meaningful process. You take shapeless material, wood, metal, clay, and invest in it your labor, your skill, a piece of your soul, to create something useful. Something that will serve. A chair you can sit on. A plate you can put food in. A tool you can work with. This was dialogue with material. And what I was doing now was profanation. Soulless, mechanical work for virtual points.
These paper balls, kusudamas, were empty inside and out. They carried no function except aesthetic, and even that was doubtful. They were fragile and meaningless. And the system encouraged me for creating this trash. I felt like a monkey in a laboratory that presses a lever to get a banana. Is this really my "Creator's Spark"? In folding paper according to someone else's scheme? This thought was offensive. No, I definitely must accumulate these damned hundred points as soon as possible and get the first technology. To start creating something real. Something that will have weight, strength and meaning. Something I can proudly call my work.
But even so, before worrying about great creations and no less great dangers in the form of World Devourers, I need to survive tomorrow in this cardboard box in the city's most dangerous district. And this thought here and now was far more sobering than any Galactus.
I pray to all gods, who here, unlike in my world, aren't just empty words, that this version turns out... well at least not the one where everyone's doomed to annihilation. With these encouraging thoughts I fell asleep, anticipating the new day.