"-and that's why both neo-Keynesiansim and neoliberalism suffered from the same fatal flaw, in that both were still influenced by the underlying mercantilism assumption that the unlimited accumulation of perceived 'wealth' was an action with inevitable beneficial secondary effects, instead of the sign of a deeply disturbed mind needing treatment for hoarding disorder before it met a terminal end."

Brock took a bite of his omelette as he pondered KB (Administrative)'s words, the comfortable fabric of a black tracksuit accented in grey stripes rubbing against his skin. After his third interruption of the ongoing explanation of the world's economic system, complaining about being clad in only a towel, the murderbot had dismissively told him to use his magiphone's help function. Brock initially refused, not wanting to engage with Bindy, but the process of operating the makerbox was remarkably straightforward and Bindy disappeared with a minimum of celebratory hipthrusts once Brock figured it out. A few credits from his surprisingly large personal account purchased the ability to make the tracksuit for future use, along with the omelette recipe.

"So, uhhh, being a billionaire is basically the same as filling your house with old newspapers until they fall over and crush you to death? Is that what you mean, KB (Administrative)?"

"A concise encapsulation, meatbag, though normally it is guillotines falling instead of stacks of moldering print."

Brock tapped his fork against his teeth.

"But... well, how does anything get done, then? What motivates people to work the crappy jobs that need doing instead of lying around all day? What do people do?"

KB (Administrative) shrugged with all eight legs, a sine wave of rippling metal.

"Whatever makes them happy. Almost every sapient being desires new experiences, to feel like their life matters, and with basic needs met, they are free to pursue those goals as they wish."

"But how?" Brock nearly howled, thinking back to the mandatory high school economics classes necessary for anyone pursuing an advertising career. "Someone has to clean the toilets and take out the trash!"

KB (Administrative)'s eyes flared up briefly in what Brock now recognized as the robot's version of sardonic laughter.

"Magic, meatbag."

Brock nearly threw his fork in frustration.

"That's not an answer!"

"Why not?" KB (Administrative) flicked two tentaclegs through a complicated series of gestures and a bar of pure gold the size of a large suitcase appeared on Brock's kitchen island with a heavy thud. "Any child with an ounce of desire to learn magic and some training can master Create Earth. If you're willing to wait, a suitable celestial body can be mined for the same result."

As Brock goggled, the robot opened one of the unknown appliances against the wall and tossed the brick of more wealth than Brock had ever seen in one place casually inside, then closed it.

"Uhhh, what, uhhh, I mean, uhhh, where did you just put that?"

"Garbage chute. The building will use it to repair necessary components, or distribute to other residents if they need it for something." The killbot fired a thin green lance of energy and neatly vaporized the trembling fork in Brock's hand. "Disintegration ray. Schematics are freely available for those interested and willing to spend the time to put it together. Handles trash quite well."

Brock looked down at the third of his omelette still remaining, then back up at KB (Administrative).

"You can't... that's not..." A thousand questions were competing for his tongue, but the most important one came out first. "How am I supposed to finish eating my breakfast?!"

KB (Administrative) tapped on the makerbox a few times, then withdrew a new fork, nearly identical to the one Brock had been previously holding except that it was significantly plainer. The robot placed the handle in Brock's unresisting hand, then withdrew to the top of the couch, perching like a smug spider from the depths of hell.

"There. Paid for with the credit from the gold. Everything all squared away. Now do you understand how money works, meatbag?"

"Noooo!" Brock wailed, cutting off another piece of omelette and spearing it angrily, glaring at one of the tines as it bent. "Who determines that a fortune in gold is worth the same as a shitty fork?!" He masticated furiously, spraying flecks of egg and mushroom across his plate. "Where is the value in your economy?!"

"The 'value,' meatbag," KB (Administrative) said slowly, "is not in an arbitrary designation of certain metals as aesthetically desirable, it is in whether or not our actions benefit the society we all inhabit and contribute to. The effort it took me to create a solid brick of elemental gold is the same effort it took someone else to come up with the design for that wretched excuse of a utensil you used to feed yourself. Both were the matter of a few seconds of thought. It is an equivalent exchange of time."

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

"But who judges that!"

"The system, Brock!" Bindy zipped up onto the kitchen island. "It keeps track of everything! It's always watching! You can trust the system!"

"How! Who watches the system!"

"The system!"

Brock pushed his plate away and let his head hit the table with a despairing sigh as Bindy retreated back to his tracksuit pant's pocket. He felt like he was adrift in an alien world where every time he thought he had a handle on something familiar, it turned out to have unseen edges that changed its shape completely.

"It is not that difficult, meatbag," KB (Administrative) said, almost kindly. "If you help other people, they will help you in return."

"But there's no incentive," Brock moaned, thinking of all his economics and advertising classes.

"That is a very Sekkie thing to say, meatbag."

Brock didn't really have a response to that, so he let himself lie on the table a moment longer.

You can't just create an entire post-scarcity economy off magic... but I guess they did. Wait... do they even need advertising here? Was anything I learned in school useful?

He looked up slightly.

"KB (Administrative)?"

"Yes?"

"Why is there that big floating layer of advertisements above the city? If everyone can just get whatever they need whenever they want?"

"Presumably because someone enjoyed creating them and was willing to pay the required credits to offset their negative societal impact." The robot sniffed with the sound of clashing gears. "Every citizen is taught how to run a proper search for anything considered relevant to their interests. The spamzone is a reluctantly necessary visual nuisance outlet, which is why those wishing to participate are confined to a strictly controlled area and allowed to destroy each other." Hellfire eyes brightened. "Though, the current numbers are growing past sustainable levels, so we may be due for another public culling soon. Obliterating them is quite enjoyable."

"Great," Brock groaned, head hitting the table once more, "the one thing I kind of know how to do is considered a nuisance."

"Did you create advertisements for fun in your old world, meatbag?"

"What? No, that was the career I was studying for. So I could eventually pay for my food, and my rent, and my loans. And, uhhh, I guess the rest of my life."

"Then why," a metallic tentacleg gently lifted Brock's chin so he was looking directly into KB (Administrative)'s burning eyes, "does it matter to you? Your basic needs for sustenance and survival are met. You have no obligations except to yourself. What do you want to do, Brock Unmanly? What makes you happy?"

The question hit Brock's mind like a cannonball into a stained glass window. His mouth opened and closed above the withdrawing tentacleg, thoughts derailing one after the other as his internal worldview went into freefall.

What... do I want to do?

What do I want to do?

What makes me happy?

...do I deserve to be happy?

The barest shadow of a thought sliding through his subconscious, more impulse than intelligence.

Of course you deserve to be happy, kid. Everyone does.

Brock shivered, the sensation of a lurking behemoth momentarily surfacing behind the depths of his mind.

...Starak? Are you there?

...please tell me I didn't kill you?

Silence was Brock's only answer, cognitive trenches unfathomable once more. He tried to gather his thoughts, but the footholds of reality proved slippery, previous foundational assumptions revealed as shifting river stones all too eager to upend him into another pool of existential angst. Absent the base requirements of survival, Brock struggled to define himself.

"I'm... I want to..."

Sweat popped out along his brow, and his breathing grew labored.

"I... I can... there are..."

Who am I?

"Your vitals are fluctuating alarmingly, meatbag. Do you require a cold compress for your overheating fleshprocessor?"

Brock drew a shuddering breath, trying to center himself in a chaotic maelstrom of uncertainty. There was a lighthouse, an anchor, a guiding lodestar that he knew beyond all doubt defined him.

"I..."

He reached for the idea, the concept that formed the bedrock of his being. His swirling thoughts crystalized, drawn into the essence of what formed him, and the words burst forth like bullets.

"I want to compete. Baseball, soccer, football, rugby, basketball, cricket, I don't care." He let out a juddering breath. "I want to move like I'm supposed to. I want to be part of a team without letting them down. Without embarrassing us all."

Brock caught KB (Administrative)'s burning eyes with a bonfire all his own.

"I want to feel like I belong, not just emotionally, but physically. I want to help everyone around me win. That I was the difference! That what I did mattered!"

His words rang like chiming bells through the apartment.

"I want people to care about what I felt was important! Even if it was stupid and small and petty, because it mattered to me!"

He rose from his seat at the kitchen island, advancing on the nightmare amalgamation of twisting metal and blazing fire crouched upon his couch, outweighing him in every metric except that of sheer desire.

"I want," Brock gasped, taking a step, adrenaline shivering hot-cold through his veins in trembling quivers, " to be the me I know I am." Another step. "I want to do all of the things I imagine in my mind."

Another step, collapsing against the back of the couch, tentaclegs the only thing holding him upright against the sudden exhaustion of fight or flight chemicals refused.

"I want... to stop being afraid." He waved a hand weakly at KB (Administrative)'s supporting tentaclegs, the confines of Lady Razoralia's apartment, the Limiter around his neck, the earned hostility of the city's inhabitants, the bone-deep fear that even this fever-dream would end up in humiliation and pain. "I want to know that who I am is good enough."

Brock slumped down, spine pressed against the couch, head draped between his knees.

"I want to be my dreams, but dreams don't come true." He tugged at the collar around his neck, trying to ease the itching sensation of constant metal contact on skin. "At least, not in the way we want, right?"

KB (Administrative) was spared from answering by a firm knock on the apartment door.