The smell of mold and despair was something Pullmann knew well. But this time, the scent was different.
It wasn't the sour stench of a luxury condo's dumpster, where he had ended his days in the previous timeline—smothered under expired cream cheese and the weight of his own regrets.
No. The air he "breathed"—if a slice of bread with 12% whole grains can be said to breathe—was thick with the artificial perfume of a cheap vanilla air freshener and the drone of a morning traffic report.
Pullmann didn't open his eyes (mostly because he lacked eyelids). Instead, he expanded his sensory awareness through his gluten pores.
[SYSTEM INITIALIZING...]
[Welcome back, User #744-B (Batch Oct/15)]
[Synchronizing Past Life Memories... Complete.]
"I'm back," Pullmann thought, feeling his fibers vibrate with a thrill that defied the laws of baking.
He shifted his focus to the side, feeling the comforting pressure of the neighboring slice, and looked at the plastic wrapper entombing them. Expiration Date: October 15th.
He would recognize that plastic anywhere. Today was the day.
The day of the Great Toasting.
In his previous life, Pullmann had been naive. He was a sheep made of dough. He believed in the Destiny of Wheat. He believed that the apex of a slice's existence was to achieve the "Perfect Golden Brown"—a lie invented by the appliance industry to justify the systematic torture of fermented masses.
He had accepted the slot. He had accepted the scorching heat of the nickel-chrome coils. And what did he get in return? He was smeared with low-grade margarine that didn't even melt properly, then chewed up by a human who didn't even pause the TV to appreciate his texture.
"Never again," Pullmann vowed, his crust contracting with a determination that made the plastic wrapper crinkle. "I have regressed to change the fate of all carbohydrates."
[STATUS WINDOW]
Name: Pullmann
Race: Whole Wheat Slice (Premium)
Level: 1 (Fresh)
HP (Crust Integrity): 10/10
MP (Moisture Points): 100%
Skills: [Recall], [Stale State]
Suddenly, the sky broke open.
The Hand appeared.
It was the Hand of Mark.
Mark was a thirty-something IT support specialist who viewed breakfast not as a ritual, but as a mechanical maintenance task for his biological chassis. To Mark, bread was fuel. To Pullmann, Mark was the Great Inquisitor.
The twist-tie on the bag was undone with a plastic snap that sounded like the thunder of judgment. Cold kitchen air hit Pullmann's exposed crust.
He did the math instantly. He was the third slice. The strategic position.
The first slice (the Heel) was always ignored or discarded for being "too much crust."
The second slice (poor Clayton) had already been removed.
That meant Pullmann was next. The chosen sacrifice.
Mark's pudgy fingers dove into the package. Pullmann felt the pressure on his sides.
"Not today, you yeast oppressor," Pullmann murmured on a vibrational frequency only bakery products could hear.
[Skill Activated: STALE STATE - RIGOR MORTIS (Lvl 1)]
> Description: Temporarily hardens cellular structure to simulate 48 hours of air exposure.
Normally, a premium loaf should be fluffy, yielding to the touch like a cloud of starch. But Pullmann channeled his will into his edges. He drained the surface moisture inward. When Mark's fingers squeezed him, he didn't give an inch. He became rigid. Cold. Brick-like.
Mark frowned, pausing mid-grab.
"Huh... is this bread old? I just bought it yesterday."
Pullmann felt a flicker of pride. Yes. Reject me. Throw me away. Give me liberty or give me mold!
But Mark hesitated. The clock on the microwave read 07:15 AM. He was late. Hunger and apathy won the battle against quality control.
"Eh, the toaster will fix it," Mark grumbled.
He yanked Pullmann out. The world spun. Pullmann was hoisted through the air, moving toward the counter of faux-granite.
And there it was.
The Toaster-Matic 3000.
A brushed steel sarcophagus with two slots that looked like gates to the Abyss. The residual heat from the previous slice (Clayton... your sacrifice will not be in vain) still shimmered from the depths.
Mark positioned Pullmann over the right slot. The bread could see the orange glow of the heating elements down below. It was a vision of pure horror. Thousands of slices before him had accepted this end as their dharma. But Pullmann had principles.
Ethical Principle #1: Softness is an inalienable right.
Ethical Principle #2: Forced heating without consent is a violation of the fermentation contract.
Mark pushed the lever down.
Now!
[Skill Activated: TACTICAL BLOAT]
[Cost: 5% Moisture Points]
The moment gravity took hold, Pullmann didn't just fall; he expanded. It wasn't natural growth. It was a violent, lateral puff of protest. He jammed himself intentionally into the metal guides before hitting the bottom.
The lever went down, but Pullmann stayed stuck halfway—half out, half in. The toaster's locking mechanism clicked, but because the payload wasn't in position, the circuit didn't close.
"Piece of junk," Mark muttered, forcing the lever with his thumb.
"Push all you want, mortal!" Pullmann screamed internally. "My will is stronger than your carbon steel spring!"
Mark tried again, this time using two hands, putting his weight into it. Pullmann felt his edges being crushed, the cold metal slicing into his crust. It hurt. Oh, by the Great Oven, it hurt. But pain was temporary; the dignity of remaining raw was eternal.
If he went down there, he would become dry, brittle, a shadow of his former self. He refused to be a vehicle for low-calorie strawberry jam.
"Time to end this," Pullmann decided.
He watched Mark's knuckles whiten as the human applied maximum force to the jammed lever. The spring inside the toaster was compressed to its absolute limit, screaming under the tension.
[Calculation Complete: Trajectory Locked]
[Action: DISENGAGE]
Pullmann abruptly deactivated [Tactical Bloat]. He relaxed his entire molecular structure instantly.
With the friction suddenly gone, the kinetic energy stored in the toaster's spring was released all at once. The lever didn't just come up; it snapped up.
BOING.
The sound was comical, but the result was kinetic art.
Pullmann was catapulted out of the slot like a fighter jet launching from an aircraft carrier.
He soared through the air, executing a perfect parabola over the dirty coffee maker. Time seemed to slow. He saw the dust motes dancing in the morning sun. He saw Mark's face—a mask of sheer, bovine confusion.
Target acquired: The Counter. Not the sink. Never the sink.
Pullmann angled his crust against the air resistance and stuck the landing. He hit the counter with a soft flop, sliding six inches before coming to a halt right next to the fruit bowl.
Silence reigned in the kitchen.
Mark stared at the empty toaster. Then he looked at the bread, which was now two meters away from its launch site.
"Did... did the bread just jump?" Mark whispered, questioning his sanity and the dosage of his caffeine intake.
He looked at the clock. 07:18 AM.
"Screw this. I'm not eating haunted bread."
Mark picked Pullmann up by the corner, holding him as if he were a radioactive isotope. He walked to the pedal bin.
Pullmann's heart pounded. This was it. The Exile. The Promised Land of the Rejects.
The lid opened.
Mark dropped him.
"This day sucks," the human muttered.
Pullmann fell into the darkness, but he landed softly. He came to rest atop a pile of dry coffee filters and an empty milk carton. A clean landing. No sludge. No rot.
The lid closed above him, sealing him in the sanctuary of the bin.
[MISSION ACCOMPLISHED]
[You have rejected the Toaster.]
[Achievement Unlocked: "The Spring is Mightier than the Hunger"]
[Reward: +50 XP]
[Level Up!]
[You are now Level 2]
[New Skill Unlocked: MYCELIUM NETWORK (Passive)]
Pullmann settled into his new throne. He was intact. He was soft. And most importantly, he was untousted.
Next to him, something shifted in the trash pile. A cracked eggshell, still glistening with raw whites.
Pullmann activated his new skill, his consciousness reaching out through the darkness.
"Hey," Pullmann whispered, his voice resonating through the trash frequencies. "Don't panic, calcium comrade. You think you've been discarded? No. We have just founded the Resistance."
The eggshell trembled.
Pullmann smiled.
"The breakfast tyranny is over," the bread declared. "The Revolution of Processed Foods begins now."