The vote was over. The Mayor had won. A wave of polite, but firm, applause swept through the room as the chairman, Ralph Hardwick, beamed. It was the look of a loyal lieutenant who had just helped his king win a decisive, if completely rigged, battle.
Mayor Bob Thompson, looking triumphant, rose from his seat at the long council table. The applause grew a little louder, a mix of support from the newly converted and the hesitant, obligatory claps of the still-skeptical. He was a master of his domain, and he soaked in the moment, a confident smile playing on his lips.
He stepped up to a smaller, more elegant oak table that had been placed on the stage for this very purpose. On it, laid out on a plush, leather-bound folder that probably cost more than Chris's weekly household food budget, was the ceremonial contract for the Buckhannon Gateway Initiative. It was a thick stack of paper, each page filled with the dense jargon that would legally bind the town to its own financial ruin.
With great reverence, as if handling a holy relic, the chairman picked up an expensive-looking, gleaming gold fountain pen from a velvet-lined box and placed it next to the document.
From his position in the back of the room, Chris heard a low whistle from a man standing near him. "Is that real gold?" the man whispered to his wife.
"Hush, dear," she whispered back. "It's for the occasion."
The local news cameras, which had been panning across the applauding crowd, all zoomed in on the table. Their bright, harsh lights glinted off the pen's polished, golden surface. This was the historic moment.
From his position in the back of the room, pressed against the cinderblock wall, Chris Day's entire world narrowed to that single, gleaming point of light. The murmur of the crowd, the stuffy air, the harsh fluorescent lights—it all faded away, dull and distant. There was only the target. Of course he has a ridiculously expensive pen, Chris thought, a flicker of dark amusement cutting through his anxiety. Probably writes off his grocery lists as a municipal expense.
He activated his [INSPECT] ability, a quick scan that felt as natural to him now as breathing.
[Object: Fountain Pen (Luxury, 18k Gold Nib)]
[Status: Functional]
[Owner: Robert "Bob" Thompson]
It was the Mayor's personal pen, his scepter of self-importance. Perfect. It made the coming act of sabotage feel that much sweeter.
He focused deeper, pushing his [Reality Architect] skills in a new, more precise direction. He used a fundamental skill from the [Item Creation] tab, an ability he hadn't had a chance to truly test yet: [Component Analysis]. He needed to understand the pen's internal mechanics before he could break them.
A ghostly, shimmering wireframe of the fountain pen appeared in his HUD, an intricate, three-dimensional blueprint that he could mentally rotate and examine. Individual parts were tagged with clean, white text, a complete, metaphysical schematic of the object. He saw the [Outer Casing], the [Cap], the [Ink Reservoir]. It was like having a god's-eye view of a game object's wireframe model. He began to analyze the components, his mind a high-speed diagnostic engine, searching for a single, crucial weak point. He couldn't just make the pen explode; that would be too obvious, too messy, and would probably get him a Tier-5 citation from the ModBot for "unauthorized use of explosives." He needed to cause a subtle, plausible malfunction. Okay, he thought, his gamer logic kicking into high gear. The ink reservoir is the ammo clip. The nib is the barrel. So, the feed regulator... that must be the firing mechanism. Jam the firing mechanism, the gun doesn't shoot.
He found it. A tiny, intricate component deep within the pen's mechanism, a delicate piece of engineering responsible for regulating the steady, controlled flow of ink from the reservoir to the nib.
[Component ID: Ink_Feed_Regulator_01]
That was his target. He had the plan. All he needed now was the opportunity.
Mayor Bob Thompson, his chest puffed out with pride, made a short, self-congratulatory speech. He thanked the council for its "wisdom and foresight in choosing progress over paralysis." He thanked the citizens of Buckhannon for their "unwavering support." He thanked Veridian Developments for their "bold and exciting partnership." It was a victory lap, a final, gloating monologue.
"He does give a good speech, I'll give him that," a woman in front of Chris muttered.
"Yeah," her husband replied. "But what's it gonna cost us?"
The Mayor then picked up the fancy fountain pen with a theatrical flourish, a gesture designed for the cameras. He unscrewed the cap, the threads making a soft, expensive-sounding whisper. He held the pen aloft for a moment, the golden nib catching the light, a tiny, glittering spearhead of greed.
This was it. This was his only window of opportunity. It was now or never. The boss was locked in his final, unskippable animation. Chris's heart hammered against his ribs. Okay, this is it. Point of no return. Don't screw this up. It's just like timing a final spell before the boss's enrage timer runs out. Easy. Not easy. Definitely not easy.
He focused all of his will, all of his anger, all of his desperate resolve, into a single, precise action. He activated the [Minor Probability Manipulation] skill, his Nudge.
He didn't target the pen as a whole. He targeted the single, tiny component he had identified, [Ink_Feed_Regulator_01]. A targeting reticle, a tiny, glowing green crosshair visible only to him, appeared in his HUD. It wavered for a second as he struggled to maintain his focus, then locked onto the component inside the pen with a soft, satisfying chime.
He executed the Nudge.
He poured all of his focus, all of his energy, into a single, powerful command. Clog. Fail. Break. He pushed the probability of a "catastrophic ink flow failure" from its natural, infinitesimal 0.01% all the way up to 100%.
The [EP] bar on his HUD visibly emptied. The blue line plummeted, draining away almost all of his remaining energy in a single expenditure. The sheer mental effort of performing such a precise, reality-defying manipulation caused a bead of sweat to form on his temple and run down the side of his face. He felt a sudden, dizzying wooziness, the metaphysical exhaustion of a wizard who has just cast his most powerful spell. The HUD flashed a brief, red [LOW POWER] warning.
Come on, come on... just a little clog.
On the stage, Mayor Thompson, beaming with a smug smile for the cameras, lowered the pen's golden nib to the signature line on the contract. He began to sign his name, "Robert Thompson," with a grand, sweeping motion, a flourish meant to convey power, authority, and the irreversible finality of his victory.
But nothing happened.
The pen's golden nib scratched uselessly across the thick, expensive paper. It left no mark. No ink. Nothing. It was like drawing with a piece of metal.
The Mayor's confident smile faltered. It didn't disappear, not yet. It just... wavered, a small, almost imperceptible crack in his perfect, political facade. He paused mid-signature, a look of mild confusion on his face. He lifted the pen, examined the nib with a small frown, and then tried again, this time with a little more pressure.
The scratch of the dry nib on the paper was the only sound in the now-silent room.
A confused murmur rippled through the crowd. "What's wrong?" someone whispered.
The Mayor's confusion curdled into annoyance. He furiously shook the pen, a sharp, angry gesture. A single, tiny droplet of black ink spatters from the nib, landing on the pristine, white contract. The news cameras all zoomed in, capturing the small imperfection.
He tried to sign again. Nothing. The pen was dead.
The cheerful, post-vote buzz was gone, replaced by an uncomfortable quiet. The only sound was the merciless click-click-click of the news cameras, their lenses capturing every detail of the Mayor's public, embarrassing moment of failure. Chris, holding his breath in the back of the room, felt a surge of relief. It worked. Oh my god, it actually worked. He quickly composed his face into a neutral expression. Act natural. Don't smile. Don't look like the guy who just magically broke the Mayor's pen with his brain.
The murmurs in the crowd grew a little louder, shifting from confusion to quiet, secondhand embarrassment.
"Well, this is awkward," someone muttered.
"For a hundred-dollar pen, you'd think it would work," another whispered.
Chris's desperate, and probably doomed plan, was in motion.