Chapter One:

"The Last Dance"

Rain drummed a relentless rhythm against the patched metal roof of Harbor Pointe Food Station. John's hands moved through the familiar motions - stretching processed dough into shapes that might pass for buns, coating each with synthetic glaze that caught Harbor Pointe's fluorescent lights. The batter made his fingers sticky, but twenty years of muscle memory kept the production line moving.

Through gaps in the prep station's steel counters, he watched Mike work his grill dance, spatulas conducting a symphony of survival. Steam rose in waves as rat meat and ProcessedProtein™ sizzled, their scents mixing with the rain's endless percussion. Behind them both, the ancient Huckleburger sign peeked through layers of rust and grime, a ghost of better days when beef was real and hope wasn't rationed.

"Order in!" Sarah's voice cut through the kitchen's chaos, her server's pad already torn and damp. "Four number threes, heavy sauce. Table six wants to pretend it's chicken today."

John's hands never stopped moving, stretching, shaping. "Customers can pretend all they want," he muttered, arranging synthetic lettuce with careful precision. "Just like we pretend these buns didn't come from a chemistry lab."

The Gamepass burned in his back pocket, its weight a constant reminder of choices yet to be made. He watched Mike's spatulas dance across the grill - perfect timing, perfect coordination. The kind of skill that deserved better ingredients, better circumstances. Better everything.

"Ready for dressing, John." Mike's voice carried their years of shared rhythm.

"Always ready." The response came automatically as John's fingers arranged the synthetic toppings. "Even if ready means whatever this pink stuff is supposed to be."

Ryan emerged from his office, his sixty-five years wearing heavy in the fluorescent light. He touched the ancient name tag out of habit, fingers tracing the Huckleburger logo beneath Harbor Pointe's newer markings. "Sarah, check on table three. Lisa's got her hands full with the couple pretending they're on a real date."

Through the grease-streaked window, East Carolina University's walls rose like a fortress, its barriers gleaming wet and cold. John remembered when it had been just a school, before the walls went up, before everything changed. His fingers worked faster, muscle memory masking the tremor he refused to acknowledge.

"Remember when ECU was just a school?" The words escaped before he could stop them. "Now it's got walls higher than my hopes for retirement."

"Table eight needs their check," Lisa called, her smile never wavering as she swept past with a tray balanced on one arm. "And table four's trying to trade extra ration points for a real beef patty, like we've got those just hiding somewhere."

Ryan sighed, running a hand through grey hair. "Tell them the same thing we always do. Everything's prepared to Global Resource Council standards. No substitutions, no exceptions."

The dinner rush flowed like the rain outside - constant, demanding, relentless. John's hands moved without conscious thought, each synthetic bun a perfect replica of the last. He caught Mike watching him occasionally, probably noticing how the production never slowed, never faltered. They'd done this dance too long to break rhythm now, even on their final night.

"Last call," Ryan announced as the night deepened. Something in his tone made John's hands pause briefly over the dough. "Make it count, people."

Through the window, John saw movement - a woman standing motionless in the rain. She seemed to exist between the droplets, water flowing around rather than through her form. When he blinked, she was gone, but the chill remained, settled deep in his bones.

The final orders trickled in, each one carrying its own small story. A father treating his children to what passed for a special dinner. An elderly couple sharing a single meal, their dignity intact despite the circumstances. A group of workers still in their refinery uniforms, spending precious ration points on something that almost tasted like remembered normalcy.

"Good shift," John said later, as they cleaned their stations. His methodical movements matched the rain's rhythm. "Though I swear these buns are more synthetic than last week's."

Stolen novel; please report.

"Everything's more synthetic these days." Ryan leaned against the prep counter, his shoulders carrying decades of change. "Remember real beef, John? Real bread?"

"Been so long, I'm starting to wonder if I remember it right anymore," John replied, his hands never stopping their methodical work. "Maybe we're all just pretending to remember what real food tastes like."

They left one by one - first Lisa, then Sarah. Mike lingered, something unspoken passing between them as their eyes met. They both knew this was goodbye, even if neither said the words. Ryan paused at the door, looking back at the place he'd managed through its changes. "Lock up tight," he said, though his gaze suggested he meant more than just the doors.

The walk home was a gauntlet of broken dreams. Rain hammered against John's shoulders as he navigated the maze of Greenville's dying streets. The old high-rise loomed ahead, its windows dark except for the occasional flicker of illegal generators. A rat scurried across his path, almost as large as a small dog, dragging something that might have once been food.

His apartment waited on the thirteenth floor - a number that had scared away enough potential neighbors to keep his rent manageable. The elevator had died years ago, so he climbed, each step accompanied by the building's constant groans. Water dripped through cracks in the ceiling, forming pools that reflected the emergency lights' sickly glow.

The lock clicked open, and John stepped into darkness broken only by neon bleeding through newspaper-covered windows. His resident rat - a massive brown creature he'd come to think of as Maurice - sat in its usual corner, whiskers twitching in greeting. The roaches scattered at his entrance, their carapaces glinting as they vanished into the walls.

"Home sweet home," he muttered, dropping his keys onto the counter. They landed with a dull thud that echoed through the empty space. The Gamepass felt heavier now, burning against his leg through his pocket.

Thunder cracked overhead, and the building's ancient bones shuddered. Through gaps in the newspaper, he watched purple lightning split the sky, casting strange shadows across his sparse furnishings - a mattress on the floor, a hot plate that worked sometimes, a shelf holding exactly three books saved from the library's burning.

Maurice's whiskers suddenly stood straight, and the roaches froze mid-scuttle. The air grew thick, heavy with possibility, as rain began falling upward past his window.

John stiffened, years of surviving Greenville's streets kicking in. His hand found the chef's knife at his belt - a reflex born from too many close calls. Maurice backed into his corner, but didn't flee - unusual behavior that only heightened John's unease.

"You maintain a certain dignity," a voice emerged from the darkest corner of the room. "Even here, in this place of ended dreams, you keep your station clean, your movements precise."

"Show yourself," John demanded, blade steady. He'd dealt with enough desperate people to know when something felt wrong. This felt beyond wrong.

The darkness coalesced, taking shape as the roaches scattered in perfect formation, their movements too coordinated to be natural. The figure that emerged bore only a passing resemblance to human, its cloak seeming to drink in what little light remained.

"What are you?" The question came out harder than he'd intended, edge sharpened by years of suspicion.

Thunder cracked outside, and purple lightning illuminated the room in strobing bursts. The figure's cloak rippled with impossible grace.

"Tell me, John - did you ever watch those old films? The ones about the boy who got to travel through time in that marvelous car?" Her voice carried an almost playful tone. "Now imagine something grander. Not just time... but realms. And you won't need a fancy car - though you might find something even more interesting waiting for you."

"You think I believe in fairy tales?" John's grip stayed firm on his knife. "Time travel and magical cars?"

The cloaked figure drifted closer, rain still falling upward outside. Through the newspaper-covered windows, purple lightning turned the room into a strange tableau - John with his chef's knife, Maurice watching with unusual intensity, and the impossible being who commanded even the roaches.

"No, John. You believe in precision. In craft. In doing things right even when the world's forgotten what 'right' means." Her voice carried impossible warmth. "That's why you'll succeed where others might fail. You understand - it's not about believing in fairy tales. It's about mastering what's put in front of you."

The lightning cracked again, and for just a moment, John saw something through his window - not Greenville's dying streets, but a city that stretched up into forever, its neon arteries pumping light into clouds untouched by industrial poison. Streets filled with vehicles that shouldn't exist, their forms defying everything he knew about what was possible.

"That's enough games," he growled, but his voice lacked conviction. That glimpse of something more had stirred something he'd thought long dead - hope.

"Games?" Gameweaver's laugh echoed strangely through the room. "Oh, John. This is so much more than a game." She gestured toward his window, and the rain froze completely, each drop becoming a perfect crystal that caught and refracted the purple lightning. "This world you know - the synthetic food, the ration cards, the slow death of everything real - that's the true game. One you've been forced to play for far too long."

Maurice crept forward, whiskers twitching as he studied the suspended raindrops. The roaches had formed a perfect circle around Gameweaver's form, their antennae moving in synchronized patterns.

"And what's your alternative?" John's knife hadn't wavered, but his eyes were drawn to that impossible city he'd glimpsed. "More tricks? More promises?"

"No tricks." The cloaked figure's form rippled like heat waves off summer asphalt. "Just a choice. You already hold it in your pocket. The question is - are you ready to stop pretending those synthetic buns are anything but a slow surrender to decay?"

The Gamepass burned against his leg, its weight suddenly more noticeable. Through the crystallized rain, another flash of that other world - the scent of real food carried on winds that hadn't been poisoned by industry, the sound of life that hadn't forgotten how to truly live.

"Why me?" John asked finally, his voice barely a whisper.

"Because no matter how bad things got in your life, you always tried to do what you felt was the right thing to do," Gameweaver's voice softened with something like respect. "And in a world where despair is more common than water, that is a very hard thing to find."

Her form began dissolving into shadow, but her presence lingered. Through the crystallized rain, that other world flickered one last time - sharp and bright and impossibly real. The roaches returned to their usual patterns, and Maurice sat watching the space where she had been, whiskers still twitching with interest.

John's fingers found the Gamepass, its surface humming with potential. The knife in his other hand felt heavier now, weighted with choice. He looked around his apartment - at the newspaper-covered windows, the mattress on the floor, the hotplate that worked sometimes. Maurice's tail flicked as their eyes met. They both knew this was goodbye.

Through the gaps in the newspaper, purple lightning continued its strange dance across Greenville's broken skyline. But for the first time in twelve years, John saw more than just decay in those flashes. He saw possibility.

The storm rolled on, and somewhere in its depths, a better world waited.