The Buckhannon-Upshur High School auditorium was a cavernous room that had previously held hundreds of awkward school assemblies. Red, white, and blue streamers, already starting to droop, were taped to the stage curtains. A crew from WBOY 12, a local television station, had set up their cameras, their bright lights casting harsh shadows across the rows of seats.
On stage, a long folding table, draped in a blue plastic tablecloth, was set for the three human candidates in the mayoral recall election. In the center sat Ralph Hardwick, his hands folded neatly in front of him, a picture of bureaucratic stillness. To his left sat Milla Slater, who was subtly adjusting the lapels of her expensive suit, her posture radiating a corporate confidence. To his right sat Skip Jenkins, who looked uncomfortable in a button-down shirt, his large hands resting on the table as if he were unsure what to do with them.
At the far end of the table, commanding more attention than all three of them combined, was an empty chair. Taped to the back of it, slightly askew, was a laminated, eight-by-ten printout of a blurry, low-resolution picture of a deer.
The moderator, a weary-looking Marcel Skinner from the Record Delta, sat at a small podium, a look of exhaustion on his face. This was not the pinnacle of his journalistic career. He had once dreamed of uncovering Watergate-level scandals. Now, his primary responsibility was to ask questions to a photograph. He tapped the microphone, the sound a dull thud that echoed through the half-full auditorium.
"Good evening," Marcel began, his voice flat. "Welcome to the final debate for the Buckhannon mayoral recall election, broadcast live on WBOY 12. We have with us tonight the three of official candidates who are, in fact, humans." A few chuckles rippled through the audience. Marcel did not smile. "Mr. Ralph Hardwick, Ms. Milla Slater, and Mr. Skip Jenkins." He gestured to each of them in turn. They offered polite, practiced nods to the crowd.
Marcel took a deep breath, steeling himself. He gestured awkwardly with a limp hand toward the far end of the table. "And representing the current front-runner in the polls, Bucky Watcher, we have... this picture."
A wave of laughter, mixed with a smattering of enthusiastic applause, rolled through the auditorium. The cameraman from WBOY 12 dutifully zoomed in on the laminated deer photo, the image filling the large projection screen behind the stage. The deer's glassy, vacant eyes stared out at the crowd, its expression an unreadable blank.
The debate began, and it immediately flew off the rails. Milla Slater, ever the predator, saw an opportunity to land the first, decisive blow. She had practiced her opening line in the car on the way over.
Okay, Milla, she thought, a confident smile on her face. Show them you're in charge. A little humor, a little condescension. Put the deer in its place.
She pressed the button on her microphone. "Thank you, Marcel. I'd like to start by asking Mr. Watcher to detail his fiscal policy for the town's next budget cycle," she said, her voice dripping with a boardroom sarcasm. She turned and addressed the empty chair directly. "But I suspect, given the candidate's history, we'll be met with a 'deer in the headlights' silence."
The joke landed with the thud. A few of her own campaign staffers in the front row managed a couple of weak, pitying laughs. The rest of the auditorium was silent. Milla's smile tightened. That was supposed to be a good line. That was a solid, A-minus pun. Why was no one laughing?
Next was Skip Jenkins. He was a man of action, not words. He saw Milla's failed attempt at wit and decided a more direct, aggressive approach was needed. He was a football coach. He knew how to motivate, and he knew how to intimidate. These people want a fighter, he thought, his jaw tightening. They don't want jokes. They want someone who's not afraid to get in the opponent's face.
He stood up, the legs of his chair scraping loudly against the stage floor. He pointed an aggressive, calloused finger at the laminated photograph. "I'm not afraid to ask the tough questions!" he boomed, his voice the same one he used to yell at referees. "What are you hiding from, Bucky?! Why won't you show your face? The people of this town deserve a mayor who looks them in the eye, not one who hides in the woods!"
His impassioned, if slightly unhinged, challenge to photograph was met with confused murmuring from the crowd. A teenager in the third row snickered, a loud, derisive sound that cut through the room.
Ralph Hardwick saw his opening. He was the bureaucrat. While his opponents were making bad jokes and yelling at pictures, he would be the voice of reason and stability. He calmly adjusted his tie, leaned into his microphone, and spoke with the slow, deliberate cadence of a man who was used to being the most sensible person in any given meeting.
"Marcel," he began, his voice a sigh of weary patience, "I must object to the current line of questioning. I came here tonight to debate the serious issues facing our community—tax reform, infrastructure, public safety. I did not come here to watch my esteemed colleagues debase this time-honored civic process by arguing with a photograph. This is a circus, not a debate."
He sat back, a look of smug satisfaction on his face. He had positioned himself as the only serious candidate on stage. He had risen above the fray.
=========================================
In his bedroom, Christopher Day was watching the livestream on his main monitor, sinking lower and lower in his gaming chair with every excruciating moment. The live chat on the side of the video feed was a cascade of laughing emojis and brutal commentary.
BucNuts82: LOL SLATER BOMBING HER OPENING JOKE. CRINGE.
WV_Mom_of_3: Is Skip... okay? He seems a little stressed.
Gary L.: HARDWICK IS RIGHT THIS IS A CIRCUS. AND HE IS THE BIGGEST CLOWN.
Chris felt nauseous. This was a train wreck. He activated his [INSPECT] ability, a morbid curiosity compelling him to watch the carnage on a statistical level. The data windows for the candidates appeared in his HUD, a real-time report on their public implosion.
[Name: Milla Slater]
[Status: Flustered]
[Dominant Thought: "Why didn't they laugh? It was a good joke. My marketing team said it was a good joke. This town has no sense of humor."]
[Name: Skip Jenkins]
[Status: Aggressive, Confused]
[Dominant Thought: "Gotta show them I'm tough. Gotta be the alpha. Why is everyone looking at me like I'm crazy? It's a valid question."]
[Name: Ralph Hardwick]
[Status: Smug, Condescending]
[Dominant Thought: "Perfect. They look like idiots. I look like a statesman. This is my moment."]
The debate, which had been teetering on the brink of farce, then plunged headfirst into the abyss. Marcel Skinner, who had been trying to steer the conversation back to a question about the municipal budget, completely lost control of the proceedings.
"Mr. Hardwick, if I could just ask you about the proposed changes to the..."
"And another thing!" Milla Slater interrupted, stabbing the button on her microphone, determined to recover from her earlier failure. She turned to Ralph Hardwick, her expression one of corporate aggression. "Speaking of the budget, Ralph, perhaps you can explain to the good people of Buckhannon why you were the deciding vote on that ridiculous zoning variance for the new strip mall back in 2018, the one that cost the taxpayers a fortune in infrastructure upgrades."
Hardwick's face turned a blotchy red. "That variance was a necessary step to attract new business!" he sputtered, his calm, statesmanlike demeanor vanishing in a puff of smoke. "Unlike your plan, Milla, which seems to be to sell off half the town to your out-of-state corporate buddies!"
"My plan is about fiscal responsibility!"
"Your plan is about lining your own pockets!"
While Hardwick and Slater were locked in a vicious, high-volume argument about zoning laws and corporate tax incentives, Skip Jenkins saw another opportunity to prove his man-of-the-people bona fides. He stood up again, his face expressed honest, folksy outrage.
"See?" he yelled, pointing back and forth between his two squabbling opponents. "This is what I'm talking about! While these two are arguing about their fancy business deals, they're ignoring the real problems! The roads are a mess, our kids need better sports facilities, and no one is talking about the real issues!" He then spun around and pointed, once again, at the picture of the deer. "At least Bucky isn't trying to sell us a bunch of nonsense!"
The crowd in the auditorium, which had been watching the political infighting with a kind of bored detachment, now erupted in open laughter. The absurdity of the scene—two career politicians shrieking at each other while a former football star yelled at a deer—was too much. Teenagers in the audience pulled out their phones, recording the spectacle for posterity.
=========================================
The debate mercifully ended after another twenty minutes of unproductive shouting. Back at the WBOY 12 studio, the two news anchors who had been providing live commentary were left speechless, struggling to analyze what they had just witnessed.
"Well, Barb," the male anchor said after a long, stunned silence, "that was... certainly one of the more... spirited... debates we've seen this election season."
"That's one word for it, Tom," his co-anchor replied, a look of shell-shocked disbelief on her face. "I think it's safe to say the only candidate who didn't actively damage their own campaign tonight was the one who wasn't there."
On the Upshur County Community Forum, the verdict was unanimous.
[Brenda G.]: "Well, that was a national embarrassment. The only person on that stage who demonstrated any mayoral temperament was the laminated picture of the deer. The dignified silence was a refreshing change of pace."
[Gary L.]: "I'M VOTING FOR THE DEER. AT LEAST THE DEER DIDN'T YELL AT ME ABOUT ZONING VARIANCES."
The forum hailed the dignified silence of the deer as the most "mayoral" performance of the evening. The only candidate who had not embarrassed the entire town was the one who had not shown up.
=========================================
Chris couldn't take it anymore. He needed to get out. He needed to talk to someone. He pulled out his phone and sent a text.
[Chris Day]: Hey. You busy? Need to decompress after that... thing.
The reply came a minute later.
[Jessica Lange]: I'm at Zazil's Restaurant. Just got off my shift. Come grab a milkshake. My treat.
Zazil's Restaurant was a classic mom-and-pop restaurant, a relic of a bygone era with brown vinyl booths and a menu selection that hadn't been updated since 2003. The air smelled of onions rings and coffee. Chris slid into a booth across from Jessica, who was already sipping on a chocolate milkshake, a tired but amused smile on her face.
"So," she said, after the waitress had taken Chris's order for a strawberry shake. "That was a thing that happened."
"Don't," Chris said, burying his face in his hands. "I can't. My soul has left my body from the secondhand embarrassment."
"It was pretty bad," Jessica admitted, a giggle escaping her. "But you have to admit, your campaign is going great."
"That's what I wanted to talk to you about," Chris started, his voice low. "Jess, you have to stop. The memes, the hashtags, the campaign... you have to call it off. You're too good at it. You're making it worse."
Jessica just looked at him, a curious, knowing glint in her eye. She took a long, slow sip of her milkshake, letting the silence hang in the air. "Okay, but first," she said, setting her glass down with a soft clink. "You have to tell me what your deal is."
Chris blinked. "My deal?"
"Your deal," she repeated, leaning forward, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. "The pen. The mayor. The whole... thing. I played along with your weird 'ARG' story for your friend on Discord, but come on. That was real. What you did... that wasn't a game. So, what are you? A wizard? A secret government agent with psychic powers? An alien?" She grinned. "I'm leaning toward wizard, personally. It fits the whole 'awkward but secretly powerful' vibe you've got going on."
Chris stared at her, his mind racing. He had been so focused on the political fallout that he had completely forgotten about the initial, System-empowered cause. He couldn't tell her the truth. Not the whole truth. Nobody would believe it. He hardly believed it himself. But he couldn't lie to her, either. She was his ally. She was the one who had trusted him enough to help him.
He looked down at the table, at the swirling condensation on his own, newly-arrived milkshake. "It's... hard to explain," he said, the words feeling small and inadequate. He looked up and met her gaze. He decided on a partial, deflective truth. "Let's just say... wizard is closer than you think."
Jessica just smiled, a satisfied smile. She didn't push. She didn't ask for details. She just nodded, an easy acceptance that was the greatest gift she could have given him. "Okay, wizard," she said, her tone light and teasing. "I can work with that." She knew he would not say anything more to her right then, and she was fine with that. She did not want to push him away. "Maybe after the election, you can tell me more about it."
They turned their attention to the small television that was mounted in the corner of the diner, which was tuned to the WBOY 12 nightly news. An anchor was reporting on the immediate, devastating fallout from the debate. A final, instant poll, conducted in the hour after the broadcast, flashed on the screen.
Bucky Watcher: 91%
Ralph Hardwick: 3%
Milla Slater: 2%
Skip Jenkins: 2%
Undecided: 2%
The other three candidates were now polling below the margin of error. They weren't just losing; they had been statistically eliminated from relevance. Christopher Day stared at the poll, the last hope of losing dying in his eyes. He now understood, with certainty, that he could not possibly lose this election. He had accidentally, and with the well-intentioned help of his friends, dominated the election. He was going to win.