Chris's bedroom had transformed from a simple sanctuary of sloth and digital escapism, into was a high-tech, top-secret command center for a one-man intelligence agency. The glow from his three monitors painted the laundry-strewn room in the cool, anxious blue of a spy movie. The #MusketGate shitstorm was in full effect, and Chris was its covert master spy, observing his creation from on high.
On his main monitor, the Upshur County Community Forum scrolled endlessly with the chaos he had unleashed. On the second monitor, he had a news feed set up, pinging him with any article that contained the words "Mayor Thompson," "musket," or the newly-coined and increasingly popular "#MusketGate." The third monitor displayed a live traffic camera feed of downtown Buckhannon, aimed at the brick exterior of the town hall.
He felt like a spy, pulling the strings of his community from the shadows. The [INSPECT] ability was his greatest tool. He used it on everything and everyone. He scanned the profiles of the most vocal commenters on the forum, cataloging their levels and dominant thoughts:
[Name: Brenda G.]
[LVL 42]
[Dominant Thought: "This is more exciting than the time the bear got into the Dairy Queen dumpster."]
He inspected the local news station's Facebook page:
[Organization: WBOY 12 News]
[Status: Scrambling to assign a reporter to the #MusketGate story.]
He was so caught up in his obsessive intelligence gathering, so high on the thrill of knowing everything, that he almost missed the new icon. It appeared in the corner of his HUD, a small, yellow, triangular warning sign, the kind you'd see on a wet floor sign. It contained a single, pulsing exclamation point and was labeled:
[SYSTEM STABILITY WARNING]
He glanced at it, dismissed it as some kind of system lag from all the scanning, and went back to his primary mission.
He tried, for the tenth time, to get a read on the Mayor's office through the grainy traffic cam feed. It was a difficult, energy-intensive task, like trying to scan a target from across the entire game map. His EP bar, already partially depleted, drained significantly with the effort. The System was struggling, the data flickering and corrupting. But he was relentless. He needed to know what was happening inside that building.
He focused again, pouring his will into the [INSPECT] command, targeting Mayor Thompson's personal Facebook page for the twentieth time in the last hour, hoping for some new crumb of information.
Before the data window could appear, it happened. A new, jarringly different pop-up window materialized in the center of his vision. It was not the familiar translucent blue of his normal UI. This window was a sterile, corporate white, framed with a plain, black border. The header read:
[SYSTEM STABILITY UNIT 734]
Next to it, a small, pixelated hourglass spun endlessly. The text inside was cold, formal, and utterly devoid of personality.
[CITATION: User "Christopher Day" has been flagged for a Pattern C Violation (Excessive/Destabilizing Metaphysical Observation of a Single Subject). This action constitutes a breach of the Reality Kernel Fair Use Policy, Section 12, Subsection 4b. A record of this infraction has been added to your permanent User file.]
Chris stared at the citation, a potent mixture of disbelief and indignation welling up in his chest. A citation? A Pattern C Violation? He had a permanent record? With whom? The cosmic cops? Was this going to affect his ability to get a car loan in the future? The sheer, bureaucratic absurdity of it was infuriating. This wasn't some mystical, ancient power he had tapped into; it was a piece of cosmic software with a customer service department from hell.
Before he could fully process the insult, a second window from what he now mentally dubbed the "ModBot" appeared right below the first.
[ENFORCEMENT: A 5-minute suspension of all active User abilities ([INSPECT], [Minor Probability Manipulation]) has been issued as a first warning in accordance with Protocol 867-5309. Please consult the 7,412-page User Agreement for more information on proper System etiquette. Have a stable day.]
"You have got to be kidding me," he said out loud to the empty room. He had been put in a cosmic time-out. The ModBot had grounded him. Protocol 867-5309? Was this whole System run by a 1980s rock band?
Infuriated, his gamer instincts taking over, he tried to fight back in the only way he knew how. He focused his [INSPECT] ability on the annoying pop-up itself, trying to get a read on his new nemesis.
The ModBot's response was instantaneous. A large, angry red [ACCESS DENIED] message flashed in his vision, so bright it made him flinch. The ModBot was a protected system file. He couldn't even scan it. He was utterly, completely powerless.
The next five minutes were the longest and most frustrating of his entire life. He paced his room like a caged animal, glaring at the two white windows that hung in his vision, mocking him with their spinning hourglass icon. He felt neutered, his new senses stripped away from him. He was just a regular guy again, and he hated it.
Finally, after an eternity, a new notification appeared.
[User abilities have been restored.]
At the same time, a new tab appeared on his HUD:
[QUESTS] [ABILITIES] [SETTINGS]
The ModBot windows vanished. His first act was not to check the news feed or the forums. It was to seek revenge.
He dove into the [SETTINGS] menu, his mind racing. He was looking for a weapon. He was looking for a way to block the cosmic bureaucrat that had dared to put him in time-out. The menu was rudimentary, most of the advanced options grayed out and labeled: [HIGHER LEVEL ACCESS REQUIRED] There was no high-level scripting function, no way to write a counter-virus. But then he found it. Tucked away in a submenu labeled "Communications," he found a simple command. It looked like a basic "mute notification" or "block user" feature from any social media app. It was a single line of code: Block_Incoming_Comms(Target_ID).
A wicked grin spread across his face. He had the ModBot's designation: [SYSTEM STABILITY UNIT 734]. With a sense of righteous, rebellious glee, he targeted the System ID and executed the "Block Communications" command. He poured his will into it, a silent, furious "Never bother me again, you digital paper-pusher!"
For a moment, nothing happened. He waited, his heart pounding. Then, a simple, clean confirmation message appeared:
[Action successful.]
He leaned back in his chair, a small but profound sense of victory washing over him. He had done it. He had fought the law, and he had won. He had found a loophole, an exploit, and had successfully blocked the cosmic bureaucrat. He felt like the cleverest hacker in the universe.
The next morning, Chris was awakened not by the buzzing of his phone, but by the sound of Pete's utterly baffled voice shouting from the living room. The voice was loud, laced with a potent cocktail of confusion and alarm.
"Chris! Misty! You gotta see this. This is the weirdest thing I've ever seen in my life."
Chris groaned, dragging himself out of bed. He pulled on a pair of sweatpants and trudged downstairs, still half-asleep. He found Pete and Misty standing by the large picture window in the living room, staring out into the front yard. Pete was pointing, his mouth slightly agape. Misty had her hand over her heart.
"What?" Chris mumbled, rubbing his eyes. "Did the raccoon get into the trash again?"
"Worse," Pete said, his voice a hushed whisper of awe. "Weirder."
Chris stepped up to the window and looked out. And his blood ran cold.
Every single decorative garden gnome in the neighborhood had been inexplicably reoriented during the night.
The Miller's gnome from across the street, the one with the little fishing pole, was no longer fishing in their bird bath; it was staring directly at his house. The Thompson's gnome from two acres down, the cheerful one on a little wooden swing, was now swinging to face his window. Mrs. Henderson's entire collection of seven gnomes, which usually stood in a happy little circle around her prize-winning rose bush, now stood in a straight, terrifying line, a ceramic firing squad aiming their pointy red hats at his bedroom. Even Pete's own slightly-chipped gnome, the one by the bird feeder that had been in the same spot for ten years, had been turned a full one-hundred-and-eighty degrees.
All of them. Dozens of them. Their painted, smiling faces were all oriented toward a single, focal point.
They were all staring directly at his bedroom window with a silent, uniform, and deeply, profoundly creepy accusation.
Chris stared at the army of tiny, ceramic stalkers, and he understood immediately. His stomach dropped into his shoes. The "Block Communications" command had not worked as he'd intended. It had backfired. The System, unable to process the paradoxical command of a low-level user blocking a high-level administrative unit, must have given System Stability Unit 734 a way to communicate. System Stability Unit 734 must have reoriented their directional vector to point directly at the source of the command. At him.
As the full, horrifying reality of the situation crashed down on him, a new ModBot window popped up in his vision. The block had clearly, spectacularly failed. This message was sterner. The spinning hourglass seemed to spin with a new, menacing speed.
[WARNING: User has attempted to tamper with a System Stability Unit. This is a Tier-2 Violation. Your case file has been automatically escalated to a higher-level review queue. Further infractions will result in more severe penalties. Have a stable and compliant day.]
Chris stared out the window at the creepy gnome-staring-squad, a silent, porcelain army. He looked at the stark, threatening warning hanging in his vision. He had not defeated the bureaucrat. He had just made things weirder. He had gotten himself into even deeper trouble with the System's automated, humorless police force.
He now had a personal nemesis. And his nemesis was a piece of cosmic red tape with the power to command garden statuary. Things were getting complicated.