Reality Glitches and Other Daily Annoyances [LitRPG][Post-Apocalypse][Snark]

[phanst]

Right, listen up, meatbags. The world didn't politely end with nukes or zombies. No, reality itself apparently rage-quit, slammed Alt-F4, and now we're living in the cosmic equivalent of a Windows ME crash dump, complete with physics errors, texture glitches spawning monsters made of dial-up noise, and a "System" that's less helpful overlay and more passive-aggressive error log generator.

And guess who drew the short straw for tech support? Yeah. Me. Ren. Ex-Tier 2 drone, current freelance Reality Debugger. My superpower isn't punching holes in reality, it's applying the occasional sanity patch, untangling hostile geometry errors, and maybe, just maybe, figuring out why gravity sometimes decides to take five in the middle of the street.

What This Is:

• LitRPG: But the Universal Runtime Environment (URE) is unreliable, buggy, and probably hates you. Don't expect clean stat sheets or balanced skills. Progression is... messy.
• Post-Apocalypse: Where the apocalypse is the glitch. Expect weirdness, absurdity, and things that defy explanation trying to eat your face.
• Snark & Dark Humor: My coping mechanism. Filtered through years of dealing with user error, now applied to cosmic horror.
• Adventure & Survival: Main focus. Staying alive, scavenging, figuring out what the hell happened and if reality has a rollback option.
• Harem? (Tagged for Honesty): Yeah, it's tagged. But before you sharpen pitchforks or get too excited, it's slow burn, rooted in practical reliance on my unique skillset (apparently debugging reality makes you weirdly popular when everyone's gear keeps glitching out), and definitely not the main focus. Think spice, not main course. Suggestive, awkward, nothing explicit. This ain't that kind of story (mostly).

What to Expect:

• Chapters: Aiming for 1200-1500+ words each.
• Schedule: Monday to Friday, with occassional weekend soda parties if the Glitches Allow.
• Length: Long haul planned. Hundreds of chapters if the server hamsters hold out.

First chapter below. Try not to trip over any clipping errors on your way in. Comments, feedback, and pointing out my typos are grudgingly accepted. Just don't ask me to fix your printer.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0001: When the Universe Blue-Screens

"No, no, don't kick it! Are you trying to validate its warranty on existential aggression?"

The words ripped out of my throat, hoarse and exasperated. The guy – wild-eyed, clad in mismatched scavenged sports gear, and radiating pure panic – jumped back from the flickering ATM like he'd touched a live wire. Which, arguably, he might have.

The ATM wasn't just malfunctioning; it was actively throwing a digital tantrum. Its screen cycled rapidly through [INSUFFICIENT FUNDS], [REALITY ERROR: PLEASE TRY AGAIN LATER], and bursts of angry red static that coalesced into jagged, vaguely threatening polygons before dissolving again. It shuddered with each cycle, the physical manifestation of corrupted code grinding against burnt-out processors. With each flicker, it spat out another crystalline shard of... something. Hard light? Solidified data? Whatever it was, it looked sharp enough to cut reality itself, embedding itself in the crumbling pavement around the survivor's frantically shuffling feet.

"But it's… it's attacking me!" the guy shrieked, brandishing a bent golf club like it might scare faulty banking hardware into submission.

"Yes! It's glitching! Kicking things that are actively rewriting physics in your immediate vicinity is generally filed under 'Bad Ideas'!" I snapped back, keeping my distance near the shattered storefront of what used to be a noodle bar. "Just back away slowly! Its targeting routine looks like it was coded by a caffeinated squirrel!"

My own view wasn't much better. Instead of a crisp HP bar and objective tracker, the upper corner of my vision was currently occupied by a poorly rendered GIF of a cat furiously playing a keyboard. Below it, text scrolled: [System Message: Current Objective - Survive User ID: Brenda_Is_An_Idiot's Poor Life Choices. Reward Pending…] followed by a string of corrupted characters that looked vaguely like wingdings having a stroke.

Thanks, URE. Super helpful. Knowing the panicking lunatic potentially shared a handle with Brenda from Accounting wasn't exactly boosting my confidence in his survival odds. Or mine.

----------

[Hostile Entity Detected: Automated Threat Machine (ATM) - Corrupted AI Module]

Level: 5? Maybe 6? (Analysis fluctuates wildly)

Threat: Dispenses Non-Euclidean Aggression. Low Rarity. High Annoyance.

Weakness: Probably Terrible Security Protocols? Predictable Error Loops? Try Ctrl+Alt+Del?

Recommendation: Do not insert card. Do not attempt transaction. Do not make eye contact?

----------

The System's analysis flickered unreliably, superimposed over the keyboard cat. Fantastic. It wasn't even sure how dangerous the damned thing was.

I risked a focused look, activating [Perceive Glitch (Level 2)]. The world snapped into a different kind of focus, the air itself resolving into layers of noisy data. The air around the ATM shimmered, thick with tangled lines of angry red 'code' – visualize a bowl of spaghetti woven by malfunctioning spider bots. I could see the core loop: check_balance -> insufficient_funds -> trigger_error_protocol -> access_asset_library[hostile_geometry.pak] -> dispense_sharp_object() -> loop. Basic, predictable, lethally stupid.

There was also a subroutine furiously trying to connect to a non-existent banking network, adding to the processing strain. Kicking it probably just fed garbage data into its damaged sensors, validating the error state.

"It's stuck in an error loop!" I yelled over the zzzt-chunk sound of another crystal shard embedding itself dangerously close to Brenda_Is_An_Idiot's left foot. "It thinks dispensing sharp things is the correct response to not finding money! Just. Back. Away. Don't give it new inputs!"

He hesitated, glancing between me and the polygon-spitting machine. Finally, bless whatever minuscule scrap of self-preservation he possessed, he started inching backward, eyes wide. The ATM continued its rhythmic dispensing, but the shards now landed harmlessly where he used to be. Its targeting was indeed primitive. Like trying to aim with a disconnected mouse.

My SP bar, thankfully visible under the cat GIF, had dipped slightly from the focused analysis. 77/80. Using my 'power' always felt like running complex diagnostics on three hours of sleep – mentally taxing, leaving a faint buzzing behind my eyes.

The survivor reached the relative safety of the noodle bar entrance beside me, breathing heavily. "What… what was that?"

"Tuesday," I replied automatically, scanning the street. Another glitch in the cosmic code. Another ticket in the universe's infinite helpdesk queue. This little encounter probably attracted unwanted attention. Need to move. "Also, a prime example of why you don't argue with broken technology, especially when it has access to physics cheats."

He stared at me, then down at his bent golf club. "You… you knew what it was doing?"

"Debugging is kind of my thing," I sighed, already turning to leave. "Less of a superpower, more of a cosmic janitorial duty. Now, unless you want to wait for whatever else heard that racket, I suggest relocating."

He scrambled after me. "Wait! Where are you going? Is there somewhere safe?"

"Define 'safe'," I shot back, navigating around a car that had partially sunk into the asphalt like quicksand. Saw a mailbox phase through a lamppost last week. Safe is... optimistic. "My definition involves minimal reality tearing and functional plumbing. It's a high bar these days."

My actual destination was the Kwik-E-Mart visible a block down. Looked relatively intact, which usually meant either nobody had bothered looting it yet, or it was guarded by something particularly unpleasant. Worth the risk for potential non-meat-product sustenance.

Brenda_Is_An_Idiot kept pace, looking nervously over his shoulder. "I just got into the city… I heard there were stable zones…"

"Rumors," I grunted, eyeing a flicker in the upper window of an office building. Probably just a texture fail, but you never knew. Nothing hostile, just background corruption. Probably. "Stable is a relative term. Mostly means things only try to kill you in predictable ways."

We reached the Kwik-E-Mart. Its lights stuttered weakly, sign buzzing erratically (Kwik-E - File Not Found). Standard. The automatic doors were stuck half-open.

"Okay," I said, stopping him before he could barge in. "Rule number one of scavenging: Assume everything inside wants to eat your face, use your data for nefarious purposes, or is currently experiencing catastrophic cascade failure resulting in sentience and a demand for union rights. Got it?"

He nodded dumbly.

I peeked inside. Gloomy, shelves mostly bare, but no obvious signs of [Sentient Spam Constructs] or [Aggressive Dust Bunny Swarms]. Just… a faint, rhythmic skittering from the back.

"Stay here. Watch the door. Yell if anything tries to render you non-essential," I ordered, slipping through the gap. The air inside was stale, tinged with ozone. My boots crunched on… something that glittered faintly like corrupted pixels.

The skittering resolved into a familiar nuisance near the back coolers: a Glitch Skitter, a dog-sized mess of bad code and static, bumping uselessly against the reflective surface of a freezer door, caught in a simple reflection loop. Level 2, barely a threat unless you tripped over it.

Ignoring it for now – prioritizing non-hostile targets was key – I scanned the aisles. Jackpot. Canned goods aisle. Relatively untouched. Score! Grabbed three cans of suspiciously perfect peaches and two of the ominous "Processed Meat Food Product (Try It!)". Also found a working (after minor debug-poking) flashlight and a packet of what might be beef jerky, or possibly fossilized boot leather. Protein is protein.

Stuffing my meager haul into my backpack, I headed back towards the entrance. Brenda_Is_An_Idiot was still there, peering nervously up and down the street.

"Find anything?" he asked hopefully.

"Potential indigestion and mild radiation poisoning," I replied, holding up a can of peaches. "Success." I tossed him one of the meat-product cans. "Try it. Or don't. Your call."

He fumbled the catch, staring at the aggressive label. "Uh… thanks?"

"Don't mention it. Now, I'm heading back to my hole. You coming, or are you going to try your luck finding the mythical 'Stable Zone Spa & Resort'?"

He looked down the ruined street, then back at me, clutching the can of mystery meat like a holy relic. "Which way is your hole?"

I sighed internally. Great. A tag-along. Just what my cynical, solitary existence needed. Another user clinging to my ankles, demanding support for systems I didn't design and couldn't possibly fix. But abandoning him felt… vaguely like failing a crucial system check. Besides, maybe he could carry stuff.

"This way," I grunted, heading towards the mostly-stable office building district. "Try not to trip over any localized gravity wells or attract the attention of anything that looks like it lost an argument with a particle accelerator. And for god's sake, don't kick anything."

The keyboard cat on my HUD finally vanished, replaced by crisp, clean HP/SP bars and a new message:

----------

[Quest Completed: Survive User ID: Brenda_Is_An_Idiot's Poor Life Choices.]

Reward: [+15 XP], [Item Acquired: Tag-along (Uneasy Alliance Status)].

New Objective: Don't get Tag-along killed (Optional, but recommended for positive Karma score?).

----------

I closed my eyes for a brief moment. Karma scores? Tag-alongs? Optional objectives with passive-aggressive recommendations? The universe wasn't just buggy; it was developing middle-management P.R. speak. This was my reward? Fantastic.

This apocalypse was getting weirder by the minute. And I had a feeling my headache was just getting started.

 

[Observatory Of Akasha]

Hey, just so you know, only thread marks are counted for words, you should probably switch the chapter to threadmark and the intro to index

 

[phanst]

Hey, just so you know, only thread marks are counted for words, you should probably switch the chapter to threadmark and the intro to index

Click to shrink...

Oh! I didn't know that. Thank you a lot, I will make the change.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0002: Error 418: I'm a Teapot

The trek back to my little slice of semi-stable reality was, as expected, an exercise in navigating Murphy's Law as interpreted by a reality engine that had clearly failed its QA testing. Leo, my newly acquired tag-along – User ID: Brenda_Is_An_Idiot according to the URE, a fact I was keeping to myself for sheer comedic value – provided the running commentary of someone whose worldview was actively unraveling frame by agonizing frame.

"Did... did that mailbox just phase through the lamppost?" he stammered, pointing a shaky finger like it might pop the illusion.

I spared it a glance. Sure enough, the standard blue postal box occupied the exact same space as the rusted metal pole, their textures flickering and merging like two poorly layered images in a buggy graphic editor. "Quantum superposition," I deadpanned, steering him around the ontological paradox. "Or maybe they're just really good friends exploring the intimacy of shared coordinates. Don't stare. Sometimes co-located objects get violently protective of their personal… shared space."

A few steps later, the texture underfoot changed abruptly. Not visually, but tactilely. It felt like walking on coarse sandpaper, despite looking like smooth, cracked asphalt. "Localized haptic field distortion," I explained as Leo stumbled, trying to adjust his footing. "Feels weird, probably won't skin your knees unless it decides to become actual sandpaper mid-step. Keep moving."

Sound remained a persistent headache. A cacophony erupted ahead – screeching metal, shattering glass. But the noise source was clearly two blocks behind us, the delay creating a disorienting echo that bounced strangely off buildings that weren't quite solid. Leo flinched violently, crouching slightly. "What was that?!"

"Probably just Tuesday," I sighed. "Or possibly a spontaneous multi-car pileup caused by gravity deciding to go on coffee break. Try not to think about it. Auditory lag is common. Focus on what you can see trying to kill you." Easier said than done, especially when my own internal processor felt like it was still defragging after that EMR spike back at the ATM. The constant sensory dissonance frayed nerves faster than almost anything else.

Leo kept glancing at me, a confusing cocktail of fear, disbelief, and grudging reliance brewing in his eyes. "So, you can, like, see this stuff happening? The glitches? The… errors?"

"Sometimes," I admitted, side-stepping a puddle that was calmly bubbling and emitting faint, lavender-scented smoke ([Glitch Effect: Unexplained Aromatherapy? Harmless... Probably.]). "It's less seeing the future, more reading the system logs in real-time. Reality throws error codes before it completely face-plants. Warnings like [Warning: Physics Engine Stability Dropping] or [Fatal Exception: Object Permanence Failure Imminent]. You learn to spot them."

He shook his head, clearly struggling. "Before… before all this… I was training to be an architect's draftsman. Lines, structure, rules… This place…" He gestured vaguely at a nearby building whose corners seemed to be melting like candle wax, defying its own structural integrity. "This place breaks all the rules."

"Tell me about it," I muttered. "Welcome to the bug report that is existence."

We finally reached the sullen monolith of the office building. I bypassed the crackling, user-installed energy field at the main entrance ("Definitely not OSHA compliant, probably powered by tortured squirrels and wishful thinking") and led Leo around back to the service entrance, held ajar by the eternally patient filing cabinet.

Inside, the transition was stark. The chaotic noise and visual static of the outside world muffled instantly, replaced by the cool, steady hum of server fans. Clean, filtered air, smelling faintly of ozone and warm plastic, replaced the street's miasma of decay and glitch-rot. Rows upon rows of blinking server racks marched down the aisles like disciplined technological soldiers, creating canyons of humming metal under the high, grimy windows. Dust motes danced in the beams of emergency lighting like phantom data packets. It wasn't silent, but it was an orderly sound. The sound of computation still valiantly trying to compute.

Leo stopped just inside, genuinely speechless for a moment, simply absorbing the relative calm. "It's... working? It's cool in here."

"Best real estate in the glitch-zone," I confirmed, weaving through the familiar maze. "Independent power filtering, climate control still mostly functional, structurally sound. Built by people paranoid about losing data, not reality itself, but the overlap in precautions is beneficial." I pointed to a server rack displaying a perfectly stable array of green status lights. "See? Some things still remember how to function properly."

My personal sanctuary, the supply closet, was exactly as I'd left it. Leo peered inside, taking in the controlled explosion of scavenged tech. My blanket-nest, the shelves overflowing with components, tools, dubious foodstuffs. A half-disassembled drone sat on one shelf, wires spilling like metallic guts – a project I'd abandoned after realizing its guidance system interpreted 'fly straight' as 'become a non-Euclidean pretzel'. Beside it, my perpetually optimistic coffee maker project remained stubbornly dark, its front panel displaying only [Error 418: I'm a Teapot]. One day, caffeine. One glorious day.

"Cozy," Leo managed, still looking overwhelmed. He perched nervously on the offered plastic crate near the entrance. "You fixed all this?"

"Less fixed, more… curated stability," I clarified, dropping my backpack. "Think of it as a lifeboat in a sea of bad code." I grabbed the flickering flashlight. "Right. Rule two: Don't touch anything unless you want to potentially debug it with your face. Especially the sparking bits."

Sitting on my nest, I focused on the faulty light. Time to impress the newbie (or just make the damn thing work). Closed my eyes. Activated [Perceive Glitch]. Okay, visualize.

The flashlight in my mind became translucent light and wireframes. Cool blue energy streamed from the 'battery'. Followed the flow. There – the angry orange knot, sparking around the blue stream, the parasitic feedback loop ([Error: Redundant Photon Drain Subroutine Active]). Looked like tangled, pulsing static cling on the clean power line. Okay, [Localized Data Glitch Dampening]. Summoned the mental 'logic probe'. Touched the knot. Felt the resistance – like pushing against thick static, a jolt that echoed behind my eyeballs, tightening the band of my lingering headache. Focused. Found the recursive core of the error: while(light_on) { drain_power(extra); flicker_annoyingly(); }. Sloppy coding. Highlighted the entire loop. Applied the 'isolate and nullify' command. Wrapped it in a mental container, snipped the connections. Silenced it.

The orange knot flared, pulsed erratically, then dissolved into faint grey whisps that faded into the background hum. Blue energy flowed clean and bright. [-8 SP]. Felt like I'd mentally wrestled a stubborn driver conflict.

Opened my eyes. The flashlight beam was steady, clean, strong. Tossed it onto the shelf. Satisfying clunk.

Leo jumped at the sound, then stared, eyes darting between me and the flashlight. "But... you didn't even touch it! It just... stopped!" He shook his head vigorously, rubbing his eyes. "Okay, no. That's not possible. Glitches don't just stop because someone squints at them."

"Battery contacts were loose," I lied smoothly, fighting a smirk. His disbelief was oddly refreshing. "Focused application of percussive maintenance. Sometimes you just gotta knock sense into faulty hardware."

"By thinking at it?" He lowered his voice. "Come on, Ren. I might be new to… this," he waved a hand encompassingly, "but I'm not stupid. What are you?"

"Complicated," I deflected, turning to my backpack. Distraction time. Pulled out a can of peaches. "And hungry." The can felt cool, looked perfect. Popped the top. The syrup inside seemed to almost glow faintly. The scent was intensely, unnaturally peachy. Took a bite. Sweet, tangy, texture disconcertingly firm. Tasted more like the idea of a peach than any fruit grown on actual soil. Finished half the can, pushed down the faint internal query about long-term mutagenic effects. Calories are king.

Then, the pièce de résistance: "Processed Meat Food Product (Try It!)". I presented the can to Leo, which he had returned to me to keep in my backpack. "Your welcoming gift."

He recoiled slightly, reading the label. "Processed... Try It? That sounds..."

"Like truth in advertising," I finished, popping the lid. The smell hit first – vaguely metallic, faintly salty, with an undertone of something that might have been boiled gym socks. The contents sloshed – a pinkish-grey loaf suspended in a trembling, translucent jelly. "Observe." I poked it with my multi-tool knife. The loaf quivered, then slowly oozed back into shape. "Nutritional value: debatable. Texture: questionable. Potential side effects: unknown, possibly hilarious. Recommended usage: extreme emergencies or developing a robust sense of nihilism."

Leo looked positively green. "I… I think I'll pass."

"Wise choice," I conceded, sealing the can with grim finality and placing it on the 'Maybe Later If Actively Starving To Death' shelf section. "More radioactive peaches for me, then."

We lapsed into a slightly awkward silence, punctuated only by the rhythmic chorus of server fans. Leo seemed to be wrestling with the conflicting evidence of his senses versus his understanding of reality. Me? I was just enjoying the relative lack of things actively trying to kill me.

And then, slicing through the hum, it returned.

Click-flash-flash. Pause.

Click-flash-flash. Pause.

Subtle, but insistent. Precise. Coming from deeper within the server farm aisles. A rhythmic disruption in the background harmony. My headache, momentarily banished by the debugging effort, pulsed back into existence, a dull throb keeping time with the anomaly.

Leo tensed. "What's that? That clicking?"

"Just background noise," I lied again, but my attention sharpened. Too regular. Too clean. My [Perceive Glitch] skill focused on the sensation – not chaotic noise, but a structured, repeating pattern. Stable. Clean, in its own corrupted way. Like a meticulously crafted error message. It felt… intentional. "Old servers make weird sounds when they're contemplating retirement."

But the feeling deepened. This wasn't a machine dying. This was a machine broadcasting. A weak, rhythmic pulse echoing in the digital wasteland.

And the silence that followed each three-flash burst felt less like a pause, and more like it was listening for a reply.

My makeshift sanctuary suddenly felt less like a fortress and more like a listening post I hadn't known I was manning. The mystery wasn't just out there in the glitching streets; it was right here, humming patiently in the dark.

 

[phanst]

As it will be a running gag in the series (not every chapter), I would like to explain it upfront to save everyone any confusion.

Spoiler: The Tuesday Joke

It's a running bit of dark humor and sarcastic understatement heavily tied into Ren's cynical perspective and the overall tone of the story.

Tuesday is a normie day, it ain't anything special. It got no dread of Monday or the "Wee! Wee! It's the Weekend >.<" of Friday. It's just... Tuesday. Ren uses "Tuesday" and stuff like "Typical Tuesday tech support challenge" immediately after describing something incredibly "damn, how tf did i survive that" experience. The humor comes from the contrast (juxtaprotion or some other big word) between a normie Tuesday and an encounter with a face-eating spaghetti doggo on the street or some possible gigantic monster bulldozing through everything, almost flattening everyone like those youtube hydraulic press videos do to cute plush toys (f u HydraulicPress6000_V666 for what you did to that blue cute bunny!!!).

In the Glitchstorm, such bizarre, near-death experiences are just another Tuesday. It's regular af here. It's insane but it's common, routine. It's the apocalyptic "Just another day at the office, we just had production go down, the intern deleted the database (how???)" kind of thing.

Essentially, when Ren says something crazy is "Just Tuesday," he means: "Oh great, another impossible, life-threatening absurdity to deal with. Add it to the never-ending pile of bullshit that constitutes my existence now. Business as usual in hell."

 

[phanst]

Also, I hope someone can please help me answer this, but should I put the contents of the chapter in a spoilder tag? I saw some other people were doing that and I feel like it makes it easier to scroll since you can just close them tags and the chapters don't take that much space.

Maybe, it would be easier for people who want to see user replies and stuff that isn't specifically Chapters, Extra Information, and Stuff that is already easy to navigate through the Threadmarks at the top.

This is kind of my first time posting on a forum, so I am not sure what's the better option. What do you prefer?

 

[Dovahkiin]

@phanst I noticed that the synopsis has a typo saying 'attracting powerful grills who find' instead of 'attracting powerful girls who find'

 

[phanst]

@phanst I noticed that the synopsis has a typo saying 'attracting powerful grills who find' instead of 'attracting powerful girls who find'

Click to shrink...

OwO, you noticed!!! It is intentional.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0003: Static on the Line (and Possibly in Reality Itself)

The clicking persisted. Click-flash-flash. Pause. Click-flash-flash. Pause. It burrowed into the ambient hum of the server room, a rhythmic data parasite gnawing at the quiet. It wasn't just noise; my [Perceive Glitch] skill confirmed that faint, structured pulse of corrupted data syncing perfectly with the sound. Stable. Repeating. Intentional.

"Okay, that's officially upgraded from 'annoying hardware noise' to 'suspicious anomaly requiring investigation'," I announced to the closet wall, already grabbing my multi-tool and the now-steady flashlight.

Leo, still perched on his crate like a nervous sparrow, looked up sharply. "Investigate? Investigate what? It's just a noise!"

"It's a pattern, Leo," I countered, stepping out into the server aisle. "And in this reality, unexplained patterns are usually precursors to things going spectacularly sideways. Either it's a glitch about to escalate, a trap, or..." I let the pause hang, "…or it's something else. Something deliberate." I started moving slowly down the aisle, tracing the faint pulse of distorted data with my senses.

He scrambled up, looking torn between the relative safety of the closet and the sheer terror of being left alone. "But… where are you going?"

"Following the signal," I murmured, eyes scanning the overhead cable trays. "Like tracing a bad network connection. Except the cables might be made of pure anxiety and the data packets could bite."

Leo hesitated, then seemed to steel himself. "My sister… she was the tech wiz in our family. Always said you follow the problem to its source." He fell into step behind me, though he kept glancing around like he expected the server racks to sprout tentacles. Good. Healthy paranoia. Maybe there was hope for him yet. His motivation, flimsy as it sounded, was better than pure panic. A sister to find, maybe? Or just a memory of competence driving him. Didn't matter right now, as long as it kept him moving.

The signal led us deeper into the server farm, past rows of silently humming racks and darker, dustier units that looked like they hadn't been powered on since before the Glitchstorm. My perception painted faint lines of the corrupted data flow, clinging to a thick bundle of ancient, cracking grey network cables – legacy Cat5, probably – snaking through the ceiling supports. They looked brittle, neglected, yet they carried this persistent, looping whisper of data.

The cables terminated near the back wall of the server farm, plunging into a conduit leading towards a heavy, metal door marked NETWORK OPERATIONS CENTER. The door itself looked physically ill. It bulged outward in the center, the thick steel rippling like heatstroke on metal, the paint cracked around seams that no longer quite aligned. A low, almost subsonic hum vibrated through the floor nearby, and the air tasted sharp, metallic – the distinct tang of ozone mixed with something else… like the smell of hot, failing capacitors and burnt, brittle insulation. Classic signs of a localized reality stress fracture.

----------

[Warning: Area Approaching Moderate Reality Instability.]

Field Intensity: Fluctuating.

Potential Effects: Mild Nausea, Spatial Confusion, Temporary Visual Artifacts, Increased Probability of Dropping Important Items.

Suggestion: Maybe just… don't? Or wear safety squints?

----------

"Right," I breathed, stopping a few feet away. "Looks like we found the router experiencing emotional distress." The air shimmered faintly around the door frame, like heat haze on asphalt, but felt cooler, and somehow… thicker. My flashlight beam wavered as it passed through this invisible field, splitting momentarily into fuzzy rainbows. "Definitely unstable in there."

Leo had gone pale, unconsciously backing up a step. "What is that?"

"Localized reality friction," I explained, pulling the prybar end out on my multi-tool. "Space-time getting chafed. Usually means something on the other side is actively messing with the local physics constants, or just failed so hard it warped its immediate vicinity. Either way, door's probably stuck."

"And you're going to… open it?" His voice squeaked slightly.

"The signal's going in there," I stated, wedging the tip of the prybar into the warped seam between the door and frame. "Got to see where it leads. Stand back. Don't touch the shimmer."

Planting my feet, I leaned into the prybar. The metal groaned, resisted. It felt… heavy. Not physically locked, but like pushing against thick, invisible molasses. The subsonic hum intensified, vibrating up my arms. The air grew thicker still, pressing in like unseen hands. My vision swam slightly at the edges. [-2 SP] just from proximity and minor exertion. This wasn't just passive warping; the instability was actively resisting the change.

Come on, you glorified system error… Gritting my teeth, I put my shoulder into it, leveraging my weight. Sweat beaded on my forehead.

With a sudden, jarring CRACK, something inside the frame gave way. The door scraped open, maybe six inches, accompanied by a wave of displaced air that felt strangely cool and carried that intensified smell of burnt electronics and ozone, now layered with something else… a faint, sterile scent, like an old, abandoned hospital room.

The instability field seemed to flicker, momentarily less intense near the opening. I quickly jammed a chunk of scavenged metal into the gap to keep it from sealing itself shut again.

Peering through the gap, flashlight beam cutting through the gloom, confirmed my suspicions. Chaos. Overturned desks littered with smashed monitors displaying only static snow. Racks ripped open, components spilling out like metallic entrails. Network cables dangled from the ceiling like dead vines.

But the cable bundle I'd followed? It snaked across the debris-strewn floor, miraculously intact, and plugged directly into a port on a large, central network switch mounted in one of the few racks that still stood upright. The switch's lights flickered erratically, a chaotic counterpoint to the steady hum emanating from it. That was the destination.

"Okay," I breathed, the air inside feeling heavy, syrupy, pressing against my lungs. Walking in there would feel like wading through reality Jell-O. "Found the end of the line."

"Are we… going in?" Leo whispered, peering nervously over my shoulder.

"Just me," I decided. "No point both of us wading through… whatever this is. Stay here, watch the door. If it starts closing on its own, or if anything else comes out, yell. Loudly."

Taking a deep breath, I squeezed through the gap. The pressure increased immediately. Moving felt sluggish, deliberate, each step requiring conscious effort against unseen resistance. My flashlight beam bent strangely, refracting off unseen facets in the air, casting multiple, overlapping shadows that writhed impossibly. The steady hum from the central rack seemed to resonate in my bones. Mild nausea tickled the back of my throat. [Debuff Acquired: Minor Spatial Disorientation]. Lovely.

Fighting the urge to just turn around, I focused on the target: the central rack, the connected port. Its activity light blinked weakly, almost smothered by the frantic, random flashing of the switch's other status LEDs. It was receiving something, but barely. Like trying to listen to a radio station buried under layers of static.

Okay, Ren. [Perceive Glitch]. Let's see the problem.

The room dissolved into overlapping layers of visual noise in my mind's eye. The ambient instability was thick, a soup of low-level errors and conflicting reality instructions. But centered on that receiving port, like a clot in an artery, was a dense knot of angry, crimson-black code. It churned sluggishly, actively corrupting any data packets trying to pass through – the source of the weak signal light. It felt… malicious. Less like a random error, more like a deliberate filter or block.

Could I debug that? It was magnitudes more complex than a flashlight or a shuriken-dispensing ATM. This was an active, hostile data choke point embedded in a reality distortion field. Failure could mean… well, anything from frying the switch to potentially unraveling myself into constituent error messages.

Screw it. Nothing ventured, nothing debugged.

Planted my feet firmly on the warped floor tiles. Focused my entire will, pushing past the environmental nausea and disorientation. Targeted the crimson-black knot. Extended my mental [Glitch Perceive]…

WHAM!

It felt like running headfirst into a digital brick wall. A wave of pure static crashed over my senses. [-10 SP!] My vision exploded into white noise, stars bursting behind my eyelids. The hum in the room spiked into a piercing shriek that felt like it was vibrating my teeth. My knees buckled.

No! Fight back! Forced my focus through the static. Saw the knot pulse, momentarily brighter. It knew I was there. It was defending itself.

Okay, direct confrontation failed. Time for finesse. Instead of trying to nullify it directly, find the structural weakness. The flawed argument in its logic. Like debugging spaghetti code, find the one loose thread that unravels the whole mess.

Ignored the shrieking hum, the flashing lights, the [Critical SP Drain!] warning blinking frantically over the static in my vision. [-15 SP… -20 SP…]. Pushed my perception deeper into the knot, feeling like I was pushing against a fundamental disagreement with reality itself. Saw the looping, self-referential arguments, the commands designed to block and corrupt. But spotted it – a tiny recursive subroutine, designed to check its own integrity, that was referencing a variable outside its corrupted structure. A single point of external dependency.

Gotcha!

Instead of attacking, I used [Localized Data Glitch Dampening] not on the knot itself, but on the faint pathway connecting it to that external reference point. Smoothed it out. Severed the connection. Like unplugging a crucial sensor.

The effect was instantaneous.

The crimson-black knot convulsed violently in my mental vision. The shrieking hum cut off abruptly. The oppressive thickness in the air vanished, replaced by the normal, cool stillness of the server room. The frantic blinking on the network switch ceased, replaced by steady, calm green lights.

My SP bar bottomed out. [SP Depleted! Emergency Mental Reserve Activated!]. My vision cleared, but a wave of ice-pick dizziness lanced through my skull. Black spots danced at the edges of my sight. A sharp, metallic tang bloomed at the back of my throat – blood. My nose was bleeding, hot and sticky against my upper lip. Bile rose, hot and acidic. This wasn't just fatigue; this was the system cannibalizing itself to keep the lights on. I staggered, catching myself on the now-stable server rack, head pounding like a drum solo performed by jackhammers being wielded by angry giants.

But I'd done it. The connection was clear.

And on the small, previously gibberish-filled LCD screen integrated into the network switch, three lines of crisp, blocky green text glowed in the sudden quiet:

EXTERNAL BEACON DETECTED.

SOURCE: UNKNOWN. Quadrant 7G.

SIGNAL STRENGTH: WEAK. Repeating Pattern: SOS.

External. Quadrant 7G? Pre-Glitch emergency grid designation. Probably packed with dense infrastructure… and equally dense Glitch concentrations. SOS? A distress signal?

The clicking server wasn't just a repeater. It was boosting a distress signal. Originating from somewhere out there in the wrecked city. Weak, but persistent. Someone, or something, was calling for help.

"Ren? You okay?" Leo's panicked voice echoed from the doorway. "Everything went crazy for a second!"

I pushed myself upright, leaning heavily against the rack, trying to process the implications. A distress signal. A specific quadrant marker. This wasn't just random chaos anymore. This was a destination. A purpose. Maybe even… hope?

Or, more likely, a wonderfully crafted trap designed to lure idiots like me into a high-density kill zone.

Either way, chasing down an SOS in Quadrant 7G wasn't something I could do hiding in a server closet. I needed mobility. I needed intel. I needed…

My mind flashed back, unbidden, to the sound I'd heard earlier, before finding Leo. The distinct roar of a heavily modified, reality-defying engine cutting through the urban decay.

Maybe my first step wasn't chasing the signal. Maybe it was chasing the noise.

 

[phanst]

*sweats profusely*