Five hundred and fifty dollars.
The amount printed on the receipt burned in my mind like a red-hot brand. I stood in the middle of my wretched studio, surrounded by several thick plastic bags that emitted a mixed aroma of fresh wood, chemical glue, and treated leather. This smell, the smell of potential, was the only thing keeping me from a panic attack.
Five hundred and fifty dollars, spent on upcoming experiments. A huge, insurmountable amount of money for John Thompson, and for me, in my current position. I sincerely, almost childishly, hoped that this gamble would pay off handsomely. Because looking at these purchased goods, I clearly understood: if nothing came of it, if the "technology" I got from the first roll turned out to be useless trash rather than a golden grail or at least a goose that lays golden eggs, then I… would have to work off these expenses. For a long time. Painfully. Selling hot dogs on a street corner or washing dishes in some run-down diner.
However, if I soberly weighed all the risks… what was I actually losing? A credit card debt that could be restructured or just ignored by fleeing to another state? A reputation and a college education that I didn't give a damn about? All of this was dust compared to what I had already lost and what I could gain.
As a last resort, my arsenal always held a trump card—the cheat-like inventory. The temptation was great. Imagine how easily all financial problems could be solved: first, under the cover of night, place a secured door into the inventory, then enter a conditional jewelry store, "breathe" a couple of trays of diamonds into the inventory, and calmly walk out. But I chased those thoughts away. I sincerely didn't want to step onto that slippery slope. Not because of some abstract moral code, but for purely practical reasons. In this world teeming with telepaths, mages, genius detectives, street vigilantes with superhuman hearing, and all-seeing government organizations, it was too easy to attract unwanted attention. The attention of those whose even welcome presence in your life is better excluded. So for now, I would try to be an honest guy. Just a hardworking guy… with a magic pocket and a credit card.
Now for the main question—where to start? There were indeed many options. I carefully laid out all the purchased goods on the only table, and this sight, this craftsman's still life, calmed my nerves a bit.
Firstly, and most obviously, my own element—woodworking. I lovingly ran my fingers over the handles of a new set of chisels and gouges. Next to them lay sheets of sandpaper of different grits, a small but sharp hacksaw, a can of lacquer, and, of course, several blocks of linden and pine. The plan was simple: test different variations. Start with a simple decorative figurine and then move on to something more functional, like a small box or at least a spoon. I needed to understand if there was a correlation for the system between things created for art and utilitarian objects. What did it value more: beauty or utility?
Secondly, mechanics and engineering. Since I'd mentioned a potato gun, I had to keep my word. Are you a man or what? The Potato Cannon shall be, and that is not up for debate! There were literally hundreds of variations of this engineering masterpiece on the internet, from the simplest to almost professional versions. I settled on a basic, time-tested construction. For it, I bought several PVC pipes of different diameters, caustic plastic glue, a piezo element for ignition from an old lighter, fittings, and a canister of propane-butane mix. I was damn curious to see how the system would evaluate this craft. Would it be considered a "weapon"? And how many OP would it drop? I was almost certain the count would go into the dozens. Because a potato cannon, even in the world of the Avengers, is still a potato cannon!
Thirdly, leatherworking. Initially, I wanted to get clay, but I quickly realized that for proper ceramic work, a muffle furnace for firing was needed, and I only had a two-burner mini-stove at my disposal. So I decided to postpone the clay and took a starter kit for leatherwork: several thin pieces of vegetable-tanned leather, a sharp awl, a set of punches, a spool of waxed thread, and special needles. A utility knife and a metal ruler were universal tools. The plan—using internet guides—was to make myself a simple cardholder wallet. Something practical and durable.
Before starting work, I allowed myself a small ritual left over from my past life. I brewed some strong black coffee in John's old turk, which I'd scrubbed to a shine. The aroma filled the tiny studio, momentarily masking the smell of cheap wallpaper and poverty. Sitting at the table cluttered with tools and materials, I looked at this abundance and felt an almost forgotten anticipation. This wasn't just the beginning of work. This was a statement.
In my old world, every new project started like this—with a cup of coffee and quiet planning. It was a time when I mentally played through every stage: from the first cut to the final polish. Now, in this foreign body and foreign apartment, this simple ritual became a bridge connecting my past self with my present self. It reminded me that despite all this Marvel tinsel, at my core I remained the same. I am a man who takes the chaos of materials and turns it into the order of things. And it doesn't matter what I create—a stool, a potato cannon, or perhaps, one day, something capable of saving the world. The process remains sacred.
Giving my improvised workbench one last look and running the next steps through my head, I decided not to overthink it and start in order. With wood. With what was familiar and close to me. If it helped me earn the remaining 50 OP, I would be overjoyed. And everything else would go toward the farm for the next roll.
"So, what could I carve so that the system clearly interprets it as a wooden figurine? And at what exact stage will it record the completion of the work?" I asked myself the obvious question aloud, picking up a small block of linden, about the size of my fist.
As soon as my fingers touched the warm, smooth wood, I felt… relief. Deep, almost physical relief. The light, sweet scent of linden, its pliable, uniform structure—it was all so painfully familiar, like home. It was a part of my old world, a tangible anchor in this ocean of madness. Not paper cranes and not student lectures. Real work.
I picked up a chisel, and its wooden handle fit into my palm like it belonged there. For a moment I closed my eyes, and a vivid flash of memory surfaced: I'm sitting on the freshly planed porch of my house, the summer sun warming my back. Next to me, a six-year-old neighbor boy, Leshka, is squatting and watching with mute admiration as a simple wooden horse emerges from under my hands, from just such a linden block. I remember handing it to him, and how his face lit up with pure, sincere joy. A simple moment from a life I no longer have.
The pain of that thought was as sharp as a blade.