Election Day passed like any other. Chris sat in his bedroom. The dread had returned. In a futile act of protest, he decided to boycott the election entirely. He would not vote. He would not check the news. He would not log into the Facebook community forum. He would treat this momentous civic occasion as if it were a server maintenance day. He would opt out of the constant checking.
He sought refuge in his most reliable escape. He powered on his monitors, the logos blooming to life in the dim room. He put on his pink bunny-ear headphones. He launched Vexlorn.
The game's epic, orchestral score filled his ears, a sound that had once been a comforting call to adventure. Today, it felt hollow. His character, x_CyrisWarden_x, materialized in the bustling main square of the capital city, a place of online camaraderie and endless quests. But the quests felt meaningless. What was the point of slaying a mythical beast for a Sword of Moderate Importance +5 when his real-life quest log contained an objective that could, and probably would, ruin his entire life?
He tried to lose himself in the familiar rhythm of the grind, accepting a low-level quest to collect ten Gloom-Fang Spider Venoms. He teleported to the Whispering Marshes, a dark and swampy zone filled with oversized arachnids. He began his spell rotation, his fingers moving with a practiced, thoughtless grace. An Aether-Bolt here, a Phase-Dodge there. The spiders exploded in satisfying showers of graphical gore and loot.
But the joy was gone. The satisfying dopamine hit that came with a completed quest, the simple pleasure of watching an experience bar fill, felt like a pale imitation of the reality he was trying to ignore. The game was a distraction, but it was no longer an escape. His anxiety was a persistent, un-killable boss monster that had followed him out of the real world and into his gaming sanctuary. After fifteen joyless minutes, he logged out. The silence that filled his headphones was more comforting than the game had been.
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The Buckhannon-Upshur High School gymnasium echoed with the sounds of democracy in action. The cavernous space, which usually smelled of sweat and floor polish, now smelled of freshly brewed coffee. Folding tables had been arranged in neat rows, manned by volunteers who checked IDs and handed out pens with the serious air of people performing a solemn duty. A long, steady line of voters snaked from the entrance, demonstrating the town's unprecedented level of civic engagement.
Jessica Lange sat at the main check-in table, an "I Voted" sticker proudly affixed to her t-shirt. She was radiating a cheerful energy. She greeted each voter with a wide, welcoming smile, her voice friendly as she directed them to the correct table.
An elderly man with a baseball cap that read "Vietnam Veteran" shuffled up to her table. He leaned in, his voice a quiet whisper. "So, what do you think, young lady? Does the deer really have a chance?"
Jessica's smile widened into a conspiratorial grin. She leaned forward, her own voice dropping to an encouraging murmur. "Sir, I think this town is finally ready for a leader who isn't afraid to watch out for us."
The old man chuckled "Well, when you put it like that..." He took his ballot and shuffled off toward a voting booth, a new spring in his step. Jessica watched him go, a feeling of satisfying mischief warming her chest. She was an agent of the most absurd and wonderful political revolution in Buckhannon's history. And she was having the time of her life.
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The beige SUV rumbled down the street. Pete Woody drove, his hands gripping the steering wheel at a ten-and-two position, his expression a gruff neutrality. Misty sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window at the passing houses, a worried frown on her face.
"Pete, are we really going to do this?" she asked. "Are we really going to vote for a deer picture?"
Pete grunted. It was a sound that could mean anything from "yes" to "don't talk to me, the game is on."
"It's a protest vote, Misty," he said, his eyes fixed on the road. "It's to show those career politicians in City Hall that we're sick of 'em. We're sending a message."
"What message is that, exactly?" Misty asked, her brow furrowing. "That we'd rather be governed by local wildlife?"
"It shows we're paying attention," Pete insisted, a note of defensiveness in his voice. "It shows we're not just going to roll over and accept the same old nonsense. Besides," he added, a grudging grin spreading across his face, "it's hilarious."
Misty sighed in weary resignation. "I suppose it is, in a way. I just hope the deer has a good plan for the sanitation budget."
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Inside the high school gymnasium, Misty stood in the voting booth, the flimsy cardboard walls a temporary shield from the world. She looked at the ballot, at the list of familiar, and now unpopular, names. Ralph Hardwick. Milla Slater. Skip Jenkins. And at the bottom, the write-in line, where a helpful volunteer had neatly printed the name that was on everyone's lips: "Bucky Watcher." Next to it, someone had taped a tiny, wallet-sized version of the blurry deer photo.
She shook her head with a bemused smile. This is the silliest thing I've ever done, she thought. But as she looked at the other names, she remembered the scandals, the arguments, the general incompetence. The deer, for all its faults—namely, being a deer—hadn't done any of those things. With a small shrug, she filled in the bubble next to "Bucky Watcher."
In the next booth, Pete Woody scoffed at the ballot. He saw the little deer picture and snorted, a sound of masculine disdain. Nope. Not doing it. The protest was one thing, but actually voting for a picture of a deer felt like a step too far. It was undignified.
But he wasn't going to vote for the others, either. Hardwick was a snake. Slater was a corporate shark. And Jenkins… well, Jenkins still owed him twenty bucks from a poker game in 2003. A man who doesn't pay his debts can't be trusted with the town's finances.
Pete's mind, searching for a worthy candidate, a real hero who actually got things done, landed on a different, more competent local legend. Now there's a guy who deserves a vote, he thought, a sense of satisfaction settling over him. He took the black marker provided by the polling station. Ignoring the printed names and the neatly filled-in write-in, he proudly and clearly wrote in the name of a real hero who gets things done around town.
"The Pothole Phantom."
He admired his handiwork. It was a better protest vote. It was a vote for competence. Pete Woody, in his own act of stubborn, principled rebellion, unknowingly and ironically still cast a vote for his own stepson.
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The atmosphere across Buckhannon was festive. Voter turnout, usually a dismal affair, was at a record high. The lines at the polling stations were long, but the mood was cheerful. This wasn't just a civic duty; it was a community event, a town-wide practical joke.
A WBOY 12 News reporter, a young woman with a microphone and a professional smile, was interviewing voters as they left the high school gymnasium. She spotted Brenda Gruber, a woman she knew was a reliable source of folksy, soundbite-worthy commentary.
"Brenda, you're a lifelong resident of Buckhannon," the reporter began. "You've seen a lot of elections. What is it about Bucky Watcher that has captured the town's imagination?"
Brenda Gruber, her eyes shining with a mischievous twinkle, leaned into the microphone. "Well, dear," she said, her voice a warm, grandmotherly drawl, "the deer hasn't lied to us yet, has he? That's more than I can say for most politicians." She paused, letting the simple, powerful truth of the statement land. "It's a start."
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Back in his bedroom, Christopher Day was being tormented by his own HUD. He had tried to ignore the world, but the System would not allow it. Unsolicited, System-generated alerts kept flashing in his vision, statistical updates on his impending doom.
[System Note: Voter Turnout at Buckhannon-Upshur High School polling station has exceeded 80%. This is a statistical anomaly.]
Chris groaned, getting up from his chair. He began to pace the length of his small, cluttered room. He couldn't turn the alerts off. He had tried. There was no option for it. He felt the walls of his room closing in on him. The familiar K-Pop posters on the wall seemed to mock him with their cheerful, carefree smiles. He was trapped, a prisoner in a cell of his own accidental making.
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Evening fell, the sun setting on the most bizarre Election Day in Buckhannon's history. The warm afternoon gave way to a purple twilight. Chris was still pacing. His phone, which he had silenced but had not been able to bring himself to turn off, buzzed on his desk. A news alert had pushed through his blockade.
"Polls closing in 5 minutes. Record turnout confirmed across all precincts."
He stared at the message, his heart sinking. It was over. The votes were cast. There was nothing left to do but wait for the verdict to be read.
He couldn't take it anymore. He picked up his phone, and with a decisive button press, turned it off. He put on his pink bunny-ear headphones and opened his Spotify playlist. He found the loudest, most aggressive, most mind-numbingly heavy metal playlist he could find, a storm of distorted guitars and screaming vocals.
He cranked the volume dial on the headphone cord up, until the music was a wall of noise, a sonic fortress against the outside world. He didn't want to hear the news. He didn't want to hear the phone calls he knew would inevitably start coming. He didn't want to hear the sound of his quiet, anonymous life ending.