Chapter 6 brewtal destination
I wiped the counter at Perky Beans Café with the enthusiasm of a death row inmate polishing his own electric chair. Rain hammered the windows, providing the perfect soundtrack to my shit life. I was covering Melanie's shift—my boss and recent ex—while she was out wine-and-dining with Chad. Fucking Chad.
The overhead lights flickered like they were auditioning for a budget horror film. Two teenagers huddled in the corner booth, sipping Crappuccinos the size of small swimming pools. The clock taunted me. Just a few more minutes until closing. I wanted to scream at them to get out, but my conflict-avoidance superpower kept me tragically silent. Instead, I kept wiping a counter that was already clean with a rag that smelled like it had been fished out of a sewer.
"Um, excuse me," came a voice dripping with entitlement.
I ducked down, pretending to scrub something, and pulled out my phone. My reflection stared back at me—a tangled mess of brown curls that fought grooming like it was being waterboarded, a skinny frame that wasn't cool-skinny but awkward-gangly-skinny, jeans that violated dress code, and battle-scarred sneakers.
I'd tried so hard to be memorable. To have a "thing." Any "thing."
Dungeons & Dragons? I tried a couple campaigns before that fizzled out. Cars? I owned a Prius. Melanie helped pick it out. Video games? I was the human equivalent of the lower-middle of the scoreboard. Phone addiction? Check, but so was everyone else.
I was painfully, brutally average. The human embodiment of beige. If I were a spice, I'd be flour.
Without thinking, I tapped my phone and fell into a doomscroll, turning up the volume in my perpetually-in-ear EarPod—my digital security blanket. My feed was its usual mind-numbing nonsense:
Some new dance trend featuring a sea of influencers doing something that looked suspiciously like the Dougie, if the Dougie had been choreographed by drunk jellyfish.
A man-bunned guru giving a heartfelt TED Talk about how chia seeds would save humanity.
A pimple-faced kid shouting, "Tonight's the night! The largest hadron collider in the world powers on at 11 PM!"
That last one spiked my interest. I liked science—not in an I-understand-quantum-mechanics way, but in a what-if-this-whole-thing-accidentally-blows-up-the-planet kind of way. Maybe the sweet release of global annihilation would finally get me out of this shift.
"UH! EXCUSE ME... SIR!"
I sighed and locked my phone. "Yeah?"
"You made my drink wrong."
A woman stood before me clutching a cup with "Timothy" scrawled across it in my half-assed handwriting.
I plastered on my customer-service smile. "Oh, did I? I'm really sorry, Timothy. That's definitely on me. One-hundred-percent my fault."
She blinked, caught off guard. "Wait... what did you call me?"
"I'm terribly sorry," I said. "Did I pronounce it wrong? You prefer Tim? Timmy?"
"My name is Rebecca," she said, her voice reaching a pitch that could sterilize dogs.
"Are you sure?"
Her face flushed dark red. "I think I know my own name."
My fake grin widened as I pointed to the cup. "Of course you do, Timmy. Which is why I'm equally confident that must be your name—seeing as that's what's written right there. See, I made this large half-caf, no foam cappuccino for one Timothy and set it right here on this counter. And now it's in your hand. So, unless you've accidentally stolen someone's drink—and I'd hateto assume that—I can only conclude that... yeah. That's you."
She sputtered like an engine with bad gasoline. "I'd like to speak to your manager."
Sweet poetry. If karma existed, she'd be Melanie's problem tomorrow.
"Please do," I said, syrupy sweet. "Her name's Melanie. She'll be in around noon. Tall, kind of has... a specific look. Sort of like you, actually."
Not-Timothy spun on her heel so fast I felt a breeze. She stomped toward the door but stopped just shy of leaving.
With the dramatic flair of a telenovela star, she hurled her cup at the floor. The lid popped off, and her large half-caf, no foam cappuccino erupted across the tile in a steaming mess.
She didn't stick around to admire her handiwork. The door slammed behind her, rattling the mug display and knocking two of them onto the floor.
"By all means," I called after her. "Have a great night... Tim."
I'd seen worse. Much worse.
Half-caf. No foam. Cappuccino.
Why the fuck would anyone order a cappuccino if they didn't want foam, anyway? It's literally half foam. That's the whole point!
Why not just order a decaf red-eye while you're at it? Or an extra-hot iced latte?
A cappuccino without foam is just milk with identity issues.
Maybe that was the problem. Maybe I was too half-caf, no foam. Maybe I was just warm milk.
The teenagers left next, their phones glued to their hands. One looked up at me on the way out and said, "I got the whole thing—she was totally in the wrong."
Great. Tomorrow I'd be starring in some TikTok, hastily captioned "BARISTA DESTROYS KAREN!!1!" with a bunch of fire emojis. If my job wasn't already hanging by a thread, this video would be the scissors.
Not that I cared. Let Melanie handle it. Her and Chad, King of Bros.
The door swung shut, and the café fell quiet except for the acoustic cover of "Back That Booty Up" whining softly over the speakers, unaware of its own cultural crime.
I killed the music and grabbed the mop. At least the silence was nice.
The lights buzzed overhead as I filled a bucket in the storage room. Rain drummed against the roof. Thunder rumbled somewhere, nature's way of saying "fuck you in particular."
I rummaged through a box labeled Eco-Friendly Soap—Lavender Dream. A cartoon bubble winked up at me. I gave it the finger. Melanie had probably ordered it. Pastel packaging was her kryptonite.
Behind it sat something more... concerning. A large, unlabeled container of thick, green sludge that glowed faintly. Property 11704B, read the label.
No instructions. That seemed like a red flag, but also extremely on-brand for the night.
I figured I'd use less than usual. Just in case. I popped the lid.
Lightning flashed through the windows, and the green liquid caught the light like radioactive waste from a low-budget sci-fi movie. I tilted the bottle for a careful pour—just a dash.
Thunder cracked like a whip, and my hand jumped.
The entire container dumped into the bucket.
"Shit."
The mixture hissed and foamed violently. Bubbles churned. The mop bucket roiled like a witch's cauldron.
"Fantastic," I muttered. "That seems normal."
I dunked the mop into the bucking, foamy mass, barely registering the vibration under my hands. One earbud still in, I pulled out my phone again.
More nonsense.
A burger jingle. A skit about alien abductions. A countdown timer ticking toward zero.
Five minutes until the hadron collider fired up. Social media was buzzing like we were all waiting to see if we'd make it to midnight or get sucked into a black hole.
I didn't notice the acidic smell growing stronger, or the way my apron was soaking up green goo at the hem.
I glanced down at the little pins on my lanyard—cheap café tokens. Fastest Drink Prep. Group Recognition. Always Going the Extra Mile.
Scout badges for emotional labor.
My old manager used to say, "The difference between ordinary and extraordinary is that little 'extra'." I actually believed him once.
Then came the buyout. He left. And that "extra" became artificial syrups and high-fructose corn syrup.
My apron used to mean something.
Now? It was soaked in radioactive foam, clinging to a guy who just wanted to disappear.
Thunder shook the building. I didn't see the sparks twitching near the mop handle. Didn't notice the foam climbing up. Didn't smell the burning.
Outside, headlights cut through the storm. A figure approached. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Trench coat.
He rattled the door.
"Sorry, sir, we're closed," I called over the storm.
He gestured wildly through the glass. I cranked my volume and ignored him.
He rattled the handle again—harder this time.
"We're closed," I repeated. "Do I need to spell it in foam?"
Then the guy pulled something shiny from his coat.
Crack.
The door handle shattered.
Gun.
He kicked the door open. Rain poured in. Wind howled.
"Where is it?" he shouted.
I stepped back. The mop bucket wobbled, foam reaching its edge.
The floor was a slip-and-slide of cappuccino, rainwater, and glowing green soap.
Lightning lit up the café.
My heart tried to escape my chest.
"Where is what?" I asked.
The man stepped forward, and I jerked back. My 100% OSHA-violation sneakers skidded across the wet tile. My feet flew out from under me, and the world shifted into slo-mo.
In my head, a song looped from a video I'd seen: come with me, and you'll be… in a world of OSHA violations.
I really should've worn the nonslips.
In that impossible moment, everything aligned for the cosmic punchline. The clock hit 11 PM—the exact moment the hadron collider spun up on the other side of the planet. Lightning struck a power line outside, and the café lights flickered, dimmed, then surged with a high-voltage hum that rattled my fillings.
My heart crashed against my ribs. I tasted ozone—sharp and metallic.
I flailed helplessly. The bucket toppled, launching neon-green foam everywhere. It hit me full-force—my jeans, my shirt, my face. Electricity arced from the doorframe, across the flooded floor, and found me. My phone sparked and died in my hand.
Static exploded through my body, turning every nerve into a live wire. I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Power locked my muscles in a full-body seizure.
I hung there, weightless. A human lightning rod. Time stretched thin until every detail burned into my brain. The universe wasn't just trying to kill me—it wanted me to appreciate the craftsmanship.
The gunman twitched as sparks climbed his body from the wet ground, ripping apart my jeans. His coat flared dramatically, and from inside, a bottle of Indulgence Lux Bath Foam spun into the air.
Soap, cappuccino, and electricity spiraled around me in glowing arcs. His outline flickered and blurred. My ears filled with the sound of dying stars. My mouth tasted like I'd licked a battery factory.
And in the middle of that storm, one rational thought surfaced:
Well, shit.
Then time snapped back.
I hit the floor hard. The world erupted into blinding white, pain blooming through every cell. The green slime clung to me, fizzing angrily. My muscles convulsed, my jaw locked, and thunder cracked so loud it shattered the windows. Glass rained down.
My teeth chattered uncontrollably, and somewhere in the seizure-flavored chaos, I genuinely wondered if my heart would punch through my ribs.
Then everything stopped.
No light. No pain. Just void.
And as my consciousness spiraled into darkness, one final thought flickered through:
At least I won't have to make another half-caf, no-foam cappuccino ever again.
Boy was I wrong.
Then there was darkness.
Not the pretty kind poets dress up with metaphors. This was the void between heartbeats, the pause before the scream.
[YOU HAVE BEEN INVITED TO JOIN THE SYSTEM]
[ACCEPT | REJECT]
I remembered this.
The moment I said yes. The instant Earth integrated. The pressure of the System worming into my bones. The world holding its breath—and me, the reason it couldn't exhale.
But something was missing.
A hole in the memory, like a tooth ripped clean from the gum.
Then—
A shape.
A face.
Chuck.
How the hell did I forget this? How did I forget Chuck?
He drifted in the black like a puppet with cut strings—bloated, broken, wrong. His skin rippled with light and bulged like a thousand foam bubbles, veins webbed out from his head. His eyes didn't blink. Didn't track. Just stared—vacant, lidless, brimming with something that had worn madness too long.
This memory, somehow he'd blocked it from me.
Ripped it from my brain and buried it under interface static.
His jaw slid open. It smiled.
"Jerry," it said. "You're back."
That voice lathered across my thoughts—too smooth, too clean, like soap covering a razor. It hissed between my ears, grinning in my skull.
The memory felt... off. This wasn't how it happened.
"It's rude not to answer," he said.
And that's when I knew.
This wasn't a memory any longer.
This was now.
I wasn't remembering—I was there. Out of body, out of time, floating in the void between universes.
He didn't speak.
Not like humans speak.
What hit me wasn't words—it was a fuckin' freight train of meaning, and it didn't knock. Just kicked down the doors, set the drapes on fire, and pissed on the ashes.
"You left me, Jerry."
It wasn't sound. It was sensation. The taste of gunmetal and burned sugar crawling down my spine.
"You took the System's deal. No negotiation. No second thoughts. You didn't even flinch. You just said yes."
Each word like a crowbar to the ribs, bending something inside me that didn't have a name.
"You are weak," he said. "All of you. Weak little monkeys jacked into something you don't understand, thinking this is the only System in town?"
His shape jittered like a corpse trying to remember how to dance. That wasn't Chuck. Not anymore.
Whatever deal he made, it wasn't with my System.
The air curdled. Then, actual words—rasped like a busted violin dragged over gravel.
"I'll take it all back," he said. "Every inch of it. I'll turn your cities to charcoal and make 'em kneel in the ash."
"Chuck… I didn't even know you were still out here. What are you talking about? This is your home too—your planet."
He laughed.
No. It laughed.
Something wearing Chuck's skin. Something with teeth in the wrong places.
"There is no home," it spat. "Not since you ruined everything. The day you turned Fargo into a goddamn crater. You killed them, Jerry. All of them. My family. My friends. My fucking dog."
The space around him flared, pulsing with a heatless rage—then it stilled. Like it hadn't happened. Like the hate had been rehearsed, and now the actor had reset for the next line. It smiled.
"But that's okay. Better than okay. Because I see it now. The Network showed me everything. The raw feed. No filters. No lies. Just the code underneath it all. The backstage pass to reality—and Jerry, it's beautiful."
Whatever "truth" Chuck saw, it wasn't the truth.
Or maybe it was.
Doesn't matter.
It broke him.
I reached for Inspect.
Bad move.
The backlash slammed me with a data surge so violent it cracked something I didn't know I had. It didn't say Level too high. It just said:
ACCESS DENIED.
No shit.
That's when it clicked—Sloppy Seconds. The Achievement.
It wasn't a gag. Or System joke. It was a goddamn warning label.
That achievement meant he hit Level 5 first.
He'd always been ahead.
While I was flailing through tutorials and side quests, Chuck was rewriting the fuckin' meta.
And now? That slowdown in my progress? The sparse new Achievements.
Yeah. That tracks.
I wasn't the Chosen One.
I was the fucking Runner Up.
And fuck me—that smile wasn't made for human faces.
The void behind him breathed.
The Network.
The System.
Two cosmic forces.
I chose one.
Chuck got drafted by the other.
How many were out there?
Just scooping up worlds like trading cards in some cosmic pissing contest?
And I saw it. Flashes of visions in his eyes.
Not just what he'd become.
But where he'd been.
What he planned for earth.
Other worlds.
Cities cocooned in dark tendrils.
People twitching like puppets on invisible strings.
Eyes empty.
Minds borrowed.
Skies the color of bruises.
And me?
Just a smear.
A nothing, once again.
And then I zooned out and could see—we were moving.
He didn't have access to the System which meant no fast travel between Integrated worlds. No portals.
Which meant one thing:
Time.
It appeared. A message from the System, my System. A countdown.
[41 DAYS]
That's how long Earth had left.
Forty-one days until Chuck—my own personal fucking apocalypse—crashed through the atmosphere.
Something in me broke loose.
Not rage. Not fear.
Just that dead-silent click right before the hammer drops.
I didn't think.
Didn't calculate.
I just let go.
Energy surged up from my bones—hot, wild, burning like overcooked espresso and old trauma.
My aura ignited. A burst of electricity and pure energy engulfing me.
I launched it.
All of it.
Pain. Power. Rage.
A caffeine-screaming spear through the black.
And it hit.
Square in the center of the creature.
He laughed.
Not a chuckle.
A full-body, deep-gut, that-was-cute laugh.
Like I'd just squirted him with a goddamn water gun.
Then he moved.
No warning. No warmup.
Just a wave of cold force.
The blast that hit me didn't have a name.
It was just violence.
My aura imploded.
My mind went under an ocean of pressure.
The universe collapsed.
And suddenly—
Hospital lights.
Monitors shrieking.
My chest convulsing.
The world came back with a scream.
My apron was there, pressed against me like armor.
It smelled like espresso. Like safety. Like home.
And then—
A voice. Real.
"Jerry?"
Riley.
I turned to her. My throat felt like it had been sandpapered from the inside.
"He's coming," I croaked.
Again. Louder.
"He's coming."