The glowing numbers on the [Probable Outcome] screen seemed to burn into Chris's retinas.
[Probable Outcome (22% Chance): Advanced IP-tracing software recently purchased by Mayor Thompson will successfully link this profile to this home's IP address within 72 hours.]
Twenty-two percent. In the world of Vexlorn, you wouldn't even attempt a high-level crafting recipe with a twenty-two percent chance of failure, let alone a twenty-two percent chance of success. But this wasn't crafting. This was a debuff, a ticking time bomb with a one-in-five chance of blowing up his entire life. The risk, however small, was unacceptable.
The time for trolling was over. It was time to clean up the crime scene.
With a grim, newfound determination, Chris logged back into the Bucky Watcher account for the final time. The profile picture of the blurry deer stared back at him. He navigated to the "Upshur County Community Forum" and found his original post. It was still a raging fire of arguments and speculation. He systematically deleted every one of his own comments, every witty reply, every subtle nudge. Then, he deleted the original post itself. The shitstorm vanished from his feed, leaving behind only the scorched earth of other people's shared posts.
Next, he went to the account settings. He found the option he was looking for: "Deactivate and Deletion." He clicked it. A pop-up window appeared, asking him if he was sure. "Are you sure you want to permanently delete your profile?"
He stared at the question, a flicker of sadness passing through him. Bucky Watcher had been a good soldier. He had become a folk hero. And now he had to be executed. With a final, decisive click on the "Delete" button, Bucky Watcher ceased to exist.
A sense of profound relief washed over Chris as the profile vanished, replaced by the generic Facebook login screen. He had done it. He had scrubbed the evidence. He was invisible again. As he closed the browser window, a new notification flashed on his HUD. It was there for less than a second, a flicker of text so brief he barely had time to register it.
[WARNING: Corrupted probabilities data detected following user-initiated data-stream termination.]
The message was gone before he could fully read or comprehend its significance. Corrupted data? He shrugged it off. It was probably just a system error message, a bit of digital exhaust from the profile deletion. The important thing was that he was safe. The ticking time bomb was defused.
Feeling confident and finally, truly safe, he decided to unwind. He needed to de-stress. He needed to vanquish some demons. He booted up his computer, launched Vexlorn, and cracked his knuckles, ready to lose himself in a world that made sense, a world of clear rules and satisfying loot drops.
The game's launcher loaded, the familiar, epic fantasy music filling his headphones. He clicked "Play." The main menu loaded. And he stared, his brain short-circuiting in disbelief.
All the text on the screen—every single word—had been inexplicably translated into flawless, but to him, completely incomprehensible.
[Nuevo Personaje]
[Iniciar Sesión]
[Opciones]
"What the..." he whispered, his mouse hovering over the alien words. He clicked [Iniciar Sesión], hoping it was just a menu bug. The game loaded, and his character, the mighty x_CyrisWarden_x, appeared on screen in the last place he had logged out, the Sunken Cathedral. But everything was wrong. The quest log in the corner of his screen was a block of incomprehensible text. Possibly Spanish? An item description popped up for his sword: [Espada de Aetherium +3].
Panicked, he opened his inventory. Every item, every potion, every piece of armor was described in perfect incomprehensible text. This may be a simple language setting he could toggle if he could find it... or the game had been rewritten.
Annoyed and deeply confused, he used his [INSPECT] ability on the monitor itself, hoping the System could diagnose the problem. A new, red-bordered window immediately appeared, flashing with an urgent light. It wasn't a standard inspection. This was different. This was an [ANOMALY ANALYSIS].
[ANOMALY DETECTED: Language Packet Corruption]
[Source Trace: Causality-logic error originating from User's failed 'Block Communications' command on [SYSTEM STABILITY UNIT 734].]
A knot of pure dread formed in his stomach. This was not a random bug. This was not a glitch in the game. Causality-logic error. The phrase was terrifying in its vagueness. And the source... his stupid, failed attempt to block the ModBot. The cosmic bureaucrat hadn't just put him in time-out; it had gotten its revenge. This was a direct consequence of his actions. He had tried to block the ModBot, and the ModBot had blocked him from understanding his favorite game. The pettiness was astounding.
Later that day, after giving up on trying to play Vexlorn via Google Translate, Chris was morosely scrolling through the Upshur County Community Forum. With the Bucky Watcher post gone, the outbreak of public anger and excitement had died down, and the forum had returned to its normal, mundane state. He was enjoying the quiet, the simple posts about bake sales and lost dogs. It was a comforting return to normalcy.
Then, a new post from a confused resident started gaining traction. It was titled, "What is going on with the welcome sign?" The post included a short video, clearly filmed from a moving car. The video showed the large, friendly, carved-wooden "Welcome to Buckhannon: Home of the Strawberry Festival" sign at the edge of town.
In the video, the sign was now emitting a cheerful, folksy banjo tune on a loop and it was reciting bizarre, angsty poetry in a flat, robotic, text-to-speech monotone.
"The sky weeps gray tears," the sign intoned as a pickup truck drove past, "upon the asphalt's lonely, cracked heart. The soul of the rhododendron cries out for meaning. Watch out for that pothole."
Chris's heart sank into his shoes. He watched the video again. A minivan drove by. The sign's robotic voice continued, unperturbed. "The stoplight blinks, a crimson eye of judgment in the face of existential dread. Is my purpose merely to welcome? Or am I the welcome itself?"
He didn't need to guess. He knew. With a feeling of mounting horror, he used [INSPECT (Tier 2)] on the video playing on his monitor. The red [ANOMALY ANALYSIS] tab flashed instantly, a beacon of his own culpability. He mentally selected it.
[Cause of Anomaly: Corrupted Public Information Script]
[Origin Trace: User "Christopher Day," action "Block Communications," target "[SYSTEM STABILITY UNIT 734]". Rerouted by the System to the nearest public utility with a text-to-speech function.]
The dread in his stomach turned to ice. It was worse than he thought. The System, in its infinite but maddeningly literal wisdom, had processed his "Block Communications" command not as a user preference, but as an actionable, public-facing directive. It had found the nearest public utility with a text-to-speech function and had rerouted his command. He had tried to block the ModBot. The System had turned it into a poetry block.
Was the ModBot trying to get him in trouble by creating a public nuisance? Or was this just the logical, absurd outcome of a low-level user trying to tamper with an administrative functionary? Either way, this was definitively his fault. He had turned the town's welcome sign into a depressed, robotic beatnik.
A while later, a new horror manifested. Pete, oblivious to the existential crisis unfolding in Chris's bedroom, yelled down the hall. "Hey, Chris! I'm running to the hardware store to get some stuff for the fence. Want to ride along?"
Normally, Chris would have said no. But the thought of staying in his room, alone with the knowledge of his reality-bending screw-ups, was unbearable. "Yeah, sure," he called back, a sense of doom settling over him.
He rode in silence as Pete drove his old truck through the quiet residential neighborhoods on the edge of town. He stared out the window, his mind racing. How many other things had he broken?
And then he saw it.
On a pristine, perfectly manicured lawn, a fluffy calico cat was sitting, washing its face. It stopped, stood up, stretched languidly, and then began walking backward. It wasn't a stumble. It wasn't a panicked retreat. It was walking backward with a perfect, deliberate, fluid coordination, its tail held high as if this were the most natural form of locomotion in the world.
Chris stared, his brain refusing to process what he was seeing. A few houses down, a fluffy white Persian cat, lounging on a porch railing, did the exact same thing. It stood up, turned around, and backed away from its food bowl with an unhurried grace.
He saw another one, a sleek black cat, backing its way across a driveway. Then a tabby, carefully ambulating in reverse along the top of a picket fence.
Chris felt like he was having a stroke. Pete slowed the truck, and started fiddling with the radio, oblivious to the cats. Chris stared out the passenger window. He was watching a surreal, silent parade of backward-walking cats.
Chris didn't need to use [INSPECT]. He didn't need the [ANOMALY ANALYSIS] module to tell him what he already knew with absolute, soul-crushing certainty. This, too, was his fault.
The sloppy, amateurish command he had issued to block the ModBot. The hasty, panicked deletion of the Bucky Watcher profile, which the System had warned him would create "corrupted probabilities data." He had been throwing boulders into a quantum pond without understanding the first thing about the ripples. The junk data from his panicked actions was seeping into the world, manifesting as small, absurd, reality-defying glitches.
He had thought he'd won. He had thought he'd gotten away with it, that his victory over Mayor Bob and his humiliating-but-successful evasion of the investigation was the end of the story. But that had been a short-lived illusion.
Pete didn't seem to notice; he was too busy fiddling with the radio.
A terrifying truth solidified in Chris's mind. He was right at the center of pure, unadulterated weirdness.