"What's Earth Settlement One?" Sophie peeked over her sandwich at Bob.

Bob puffed up his chest. "Well, you know, it's just, how should I say, what's the word... my city."

Her eyes were supposed to light up as she squealed: "your city; Robert you have your own city." Instead she just took another slow bunch of sandwich and chewed thoughtfully.

"And why should I join your city?"

Bob deflated. Man, here he was doing the woman a massive favor and he was supposed to convince her it was worth accepting? Hell no. "Actually you're right. I don't want you in my city. Citizenship Offer Retracted."

"Robert, please, I was just asking. Why must you make everything about you? Be reasonable. I am eating quietly and elegantly, and all of a sudden, ping, a notification. Would you like to join 'Earth Settlement One?' Who ever heard of such a place. It sounds like a cult and the worst kind at that, the kind that believe aliens wander among us. I reacted as any person of good breeding might. Robert, please, I would like to be a citizen of your city. Please invite me."

"No. You had your chance."

"Robert! You can't offer and then take it back."

"I can and I did."

"Robert, make me a citizen this instance."

"Apologies. Citizenship applications can only be processed on a five-day rolling basis. Please reapply after five business days. We appreciate your patience."

Sophie threw her sandwich at him. Don't underestimate the mud magician. Harry shielded smoothly and the sandwich felt to pieces on the tent floor.

"I'm not buying you another one."

George lunged forward, slurping up the fallen bread, ham and lettuce. There it is, the great truth. The spoils of war are for the vultures. Everyone else walks away poorer.

"And one more thing, I find it most rude that you never congratulated me on my arm's recovery. Do you have any idea how trying it was to live as a handicapped person in a world of magic and death? Self-absorbed to a fault, Sophie."

Bob ducked out of the tent before Sophie could find something else to throw at him. Ducked out of the tent and zipped it up behind him. You see, he had made a little discovery while poking around the settlement tab. Something that had him very excited.

You have to understand, Bob was a member of the oppressed younger generation. He was a perpetual renter, wandering over the surface of the earth with no place to call his own. A poor, homeless child of the twenty-first century. The iphoned homeless. Pity him. Pity poor Bob. Renting is no way to live. That's no destiny for a human being. A man needs shelter. A roof over his head. Four walls about him. Something to keep out the rain and the wind. A home. Yes a man needs a home. And what a man needs, the system provides. At the right price.

For, inside the settlement tab, freshly updated post-evolution, was a link to the so-called System Structures Corporation. Said corporation purported to offer a plethora of building services and options delivered on-time and under-budget. Translation, Bob was going shopping for real estate.

At first he'd been rather surprised to learn that the system moonlit as an architect/contractor. Evidently the day-job of omnipotent deity didn't pay as much as you'd think it would. But on reflection, the whole thing made perfect sense. The core of traditional religion is an exchange of goods for services.

How much do you want for your miracle again? A sacrifice of two cows and one sheep? Come on, do you think you're Zeus or something? You are Zeus. Fine. Fine. But if you flake on me, if you flake on me, Zeus...

Bob was getting a home. He ignored civic, commercial and military structures and drilled down into residential. The system's selection did not disappoint. There were plenty of preset models in every conceivable style and price-range. You know, respectable middle-class town houses, to opulent marble-pillared monstrosities, to back-of-the-garden sheds. There was even a rather advanced search functionality where you could type in general descriptions and the system would match them against existing designs.

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Bob tapped a finger against his lips. He started to pace backwards and forwards. Bob was a somebody. A somebody wouldn't live in some outhouse shack. Bob had a position. A position demanded a residence appropriate to that position. An office is only as respected as the buildings it comes with. That’s the reason why we build our leaders great big white houses. You have to look the part to play the part. So gentlemen, ask yourself, where should the lord of earth live? Was it self-indulgence to demand a grand, stately home? No, it was Bob's divine-mandated duty.

Time to get to business. Bob sat himself down and began designing his kingdom. He felt like god himself as he molded holographic clay, raising grand castles from the void. It took him maybe an hour, maybe two hours, maybe half an hour. An artist can’t keep track of the time while he works. Bob stepped back. Bob nodded. Bob kissed his fingertips. Bob let me shake your hand. I mean, I, I, I don't have words. Bravo, Bob, bravo. Bob waved away the utterly deserved praise and surveyed his masterpiece.

A 54 room manor house in the English country style, gabled rooftop, chimney rows, great, bay windows, a touch of green ivy, all perched on the hilltop, surrounded by decorative gardens and a novelty hedge-maze; and there in the middle of the sweeping gravel driveway was a monumental marble fountain. A fountain depicting a dog chasing his tail around as water pirroethed upwards from the center point.

Bob glanced nervously over at the system estimate. He knew what was coming. 3428300 credits. A staggering, ridiculous sum, impossible to afford, far beyond the reach of mortals. Or... wait a moment. How many zeroes was that? Three million four hundred thousand with a monthly upkeep of fifty thousand. That was, inside Bob's price range... Bob could do. Bob could pull the trigger and really lord it up on this hilltop. Everyone for miles around would see his spectacular home and they would all flock to it and admire Lord Bob, the wealthy and attractive bachelor.

Bob aren't you a wanted man? Isn't the whole world gunning for your head? Bob chewed on that. Yes, company was unlikely to be friendly. Bob ought to keep a low profile. Bob looked again at his masterpiece.

Was it a masterpiece? It might have been a little pompous, a little over the top. It's hard to see these things objectively. The fountain though was definitely a masterpiece. The rest... well let's just say that it all begged the question: who’s the lunatic living in a country manor house while the majority of humanity starves to death or is slaughtered by unfeeling monsters.

Bob grit his teeth. It hurt him to do it. Nobody loves a piece of art more than its own artist. Nobody knows just how much suffering goes into the act of creation, all the little details, the stories behind each and every decision. Is this how God felt when he unleashed the flood on the his poor human creations? Bob pressed delete and the marvelous castle in the air disappeared. Don't cry Bob. Don't cry.

Bob pull yourself together. Back to the drawing board with you. Stop crying, it's not like anybody died or anything.

Art died today. Art died, Bob.

Shut up and focus. What are our prioritizes?

Art!

Shut up. First: survivability. Second: comfort. Third: style. So survivability? How can we make a building that will keep us all safe?

The obvious answer was to a construct a towering fortress. Ten foot walls, towers on every corner, stone gateway with portcullis and arrow slits, a moat, ditch and stakes, a mountain of stonework, a physical barrier between attackers and defenders.

Bob didn't really like that idea. For one, it didn't sound comfortable. For another, it sounded very, very expensive. And lastly, there's just something about a fortress. On some fundamental level, a fortress invites attackers. It's something deep-rooted and psychological. You look at a stone wall and wonder could I get over that; you see a strong place and think how many men would I need to bring that down.

Bob would choose a different approach. He would choose the path of the ninja. Dorogakure no Sato - The Village Hidden in the Mud. Yes, friends, we're talking secret, underground base. You can't attack a place you can't find. Invisibility grants you more security than any army of sworn defenders.

Bob strolled around the hilltop, trying to get a sense of how far out he could build. All system structures needed to be built within the pylon’s zone of influence. Which meant he had to build within a kilometer or so of the top of the hill. Or in his case, inside the hill. That left him plenty of space for something comfortable as well as practical.

He sketched out a little hobbit hole for himself. The process was slow, with lots of muttered conversation and silent oaths at system greed. In the end, Bob settled on a design he liked. Nothing fancy mind, nice and simple, a homely home under the hillside. He still shuddered when he saw the final price tag: 814,900 credits. He’d never spent that much money in his life. He’d never held that much money in his life. But if you can’t even spend it, what’s it even worth?

He clicked accept. The ground trembled a little, but almost imperceptibly, like a train had rattled past. Nothing like the earthquake after accepting the pylon. A notification appeared: "Structure Complete" and a little remote control materialized in front of Bob.

"Finished already? Impressive. Mighty impressive."

How had the system done it? Summon the structure from thin air? Where had all the displaced earth gone? Who cares. Time for a tour.