Victory came with a distinct downside: Lyra now smelled like a walking coffee shop accident. Despite the stickiness, exhaustion, and general "what is my life?" sense of disbelief, a giggle bubbled up. Even Rocky seemed caught by the absurdity, wobbling with silent, rock-shaped mirth.

“Operation Baked Blitz might need some…refinements,” Lyra managed between chuckles, surveying the aftermath of her caffeine-fueled chaos. Fluffy was out of sight, likely terrorizing some other poor neighborhood. Her gaze returned to the group gathered a cautious distance away – the harried postman, the shell-shocked joggers, and even the formerly aggressive Dire Nut-Muncher, who now eyed them warily from behind a half-demolished bench.

This whole System Integration business clearly needed a neighborhood council meeting…except in this reality, they might not get past the agenda item 'Pigeon Menace', let alone the part about evolving moss identification skills.

As if on cue, the postman cleared his throat nervously. "So, about that pigeon…you did that, right?" He gestured with his miraculously unharmed mailbag towards the lingering trail of sugar splatter.

Lyra bit back a groan. Great, time for explanations. At least Fluffy's rampage seemed to have sparked some camaraderie amidst the mayhem.

"It was, uh, teamwork," she offered, subtly nudging Rocky with her foot. Her trusty rock would have to remain her little secret for now. Talking rocks would undoubtedly cause even more awkward questions than caffeine-powered demon birds. "Name's Lyra," she added with a forced smile.

Introductions followed – turns out the Dire Nut-Muncher had been Mr. Snuggles before acquiring his fearsome new moniker and questionable dietary habits. One of the joggers, a lanky guy named Ben, was apparently a part-time parkour instructor, explaining his seemingly superhuman reflexes when dodging flying pastry-monsters.

"Lyra Blackthorne, huh?" The other jogger, a woman with a no-nonsense air about her, regarded her with narrowed eyes. "That sounds familiar. Were you one of those gamers doing that weird live stream when the Integration hit?"

The blood drained from Lyra's face. Of course. She'd vaguely recalled hitting ‘record’ in her pre-Integration chaos, a sort of stress-reaction impulse common amongst gamers when the line between virtual chaos and reality got blurry. It had all seemed surreal in that moment, more ridiculous meme-fodder than a potential claim to fame.

To her horror, Ben started nodding vigorously. "The one with the talking pet rock! And you guys were eating snacks the whole time? That was epic!"

A wave of mixed emotions crashed over Lyra: mortification, a flicker of begrudging amusement, and an undeniable curiosity. What other bizarre tales were floating around the hastily forming new world network? Were there other Snackomancers out there? More importantly, were any of them good at conjuring pizza?

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The thought was disrupted by a rumbling noise, louder than even Fluffy's most destructive tantrums. It was Mr. Snuggles, and he was eyeing Lyra's backpack with disturbing focus. It finally dawned on her – snacks had been part of her survival strategy, but for anyone else, food was likely becoming a real problem.

A glance around confirmed the growing uneasiness of the others. Even amidst the post-pigeon adrenaline rush, hunger wasn't something you could postpone just because the world became a giant video game. Lyra’s stomach grumbled in agreement.

An idea began to form, tentative yet insistent. Rocky pulsed an encouraging glow beside her. Was she crazy to offer something she still barely understood herself?

"Look," she began, raising her voice to make sure everyone heard, "I, uh...my power? Whatever this stupid System calls it?" She took a deep breath, plunging into the deep end. "I can make food."

Silence. Then, the postman gave a strangled sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. The parkour guy blinked, the concept momentarily knocking his athletic composure sideways. The no-nonsense woman simply scoffed, "Right. I’ve faced glowing squirrels and pigeons breathing fire, but that's where I draw the line. Nice prank, kid."

"No, seriously," Lyra insisted, trying her best to keep the desperation out of her voice. She envisioned a simple cheese sandwich, trying to channel the comfort more than the food itself. With a soft pop, it appeared in her palm. The smell of warm bread and melted cheddar washed over her. "Look, if I run low on…mana? Whatever... it takes a while to regenerate, but…" She held out the sandwich. "If I can conjure up something more filling, you don't have to just…" she gestured helplessly towards Mr. Snuggles, who'd taken to gnawing on a fallen lamp post.

To her surprise, the woman took a hesitant step forward. "You have actual food…" she trailed off, a flicker of genuine hope crossing her face. For a moment, her steely demeanor cracked, just a bit. "What, exactly, can you make?"

The rest of the afternoon dissolved into a blur of conjured meals, awkward explanations, and tentative plans. Lyra discovered the key to her powers, as absurd as they were, seemed to be tied to understanding what the food felt like rather than just what it tasted like. She learned the parkour guy, Ben, had a surprising skill for finding weirdly specific kitchen supplies amidst the wreckage of local shops, and soon, they had a haphazard collection of pots, pans, and remarkably intact bags of rice.

By the time the sun started to dip behind the charred skyline, the beginnings of an absurd 'camp' had sprouted in the middle of the street. Lyra, surrounded by an array of conjured sandwiches, rice bowls, and even a few slightly questionable attempts at curry, was finally able to pause and catch her breath. The smell of warm food mixed with a lingering hint of singed feathers – all strangely normal in this bizarre new reality.

Mr. Snuggles, lured by the promise of something vaguely resembling actual nuts, had become a cautious ally, guarding their corner suspiciously, as if daring any rogue breadcrumb to try and escape. Rocky, now perched atop a makeshift ‘command center’ constructed from stacked cookbooks, pulsed with quiet pride. Even the no-nonsense woman, who introduced herself as Sarah, couldn't hide a grudging respect as she wolfed down the surprisingly decent food.

"Snackomancy, huh?" Sarah mused between bites. "Not the most intimidating name on the apocalypse bingo card."

Lyra shrugged, trying not to wince as Sarah polished off an oversized muffin. "Beats facing down angry wildlife with stale granola bars," she countered, a hint of laughter returning to her voice. She felt a surprising camaraderie with these unexpected allies, survivors united by snack-filled chaos.