In which Alex receives his forty-second detention notice, a burger refuses to be eaten, and the multiverse hiccups in protest.
[HERO ACADEMY - DETENTION HALL - NARRATIVE STABILITY: 47%]
Alex stared at the detention slip, then at the clock, then back at the detention slip. The clock was lying—it had been showing 3:42 for at least twenty minutes. The detention slip, unfortunately, wasn't lying at all.
DETENTION NOTICE #42
Student: Alexander Carter
Violation: Unauthorized Narrative Disruption (Again)
Duration: Until narrative compliance is achieved
Notes: Seriously, Alex? This is the third one this week.
"I know you're reading over my shoulder," Alex said, not looking up. "Yes, you. Don't pretend you're not. I can feel your eyes on the page."
He crumpled the detention slip and flicked it toward the trash can. It swerved mid-air, performed three perfect loops, and landed neatly in the bin. Even his garbage had perfect aim. Plot Armor was a hell of a power.
"For those just joining us," Alex said to the empty room, or perhaps to you, "my superpower is that I can't lose. Ever. At anything. Because I have literal Plot Armor." He patted his chest. "It's not even metaphorical. I'm immune to narrative consequences."
The detention hall looked like every detention hall that had ever existed in any story, ever. Fluorescent lights that buzzed with malicious intent. Desks arranged in perfectly straight rows, each one carved with the desperate messages of students who'd been here before. A clock that had given up any pretense of tracking real time. Windows that showed a view of the courtyard, where suspiciously perfect students walked in suspiciously perfect patterns.
Alex had been coming here regularly for three weeks now, ever since The Incident. The day he'd eaten something he shouldn't have and accidentally broken the fundamental rules of storytelling.
He pulled his phone from his pocket and started scrolling through his messages. Seventeen texts from his mom asking if he was eating enough vegetables. Forty-three notifications from Hero Academy's student portal informing him of various administrative infractions. One message from an unknown number that just said "THE BURGER REMEMBERS" in all caps.
That last one was probably important, but Alex had learned not to engage with cryptic messages from unknown numbers. Last time he'd responded to one, he'd ended up in a three-hour conversation with what turned out to be a sentient vending machine with strong opinions about proper snack food categorization.
The door to the detention hall opened with a dramatic creak that suggested it had been recently oiled specifically to produce that exact sound effect. Ms. Pritchel, the System's latest attempt at a narrative compliance officer, entered with a clipboard and a smile so forced it practically had visible stitches.
"Mr. Carter," she said, consulting her clipboard with the intensity of someone reading holy scripture, "we've been over this. You can't keep addressing the audience. This isn't that kind of story."
Alex grinned. "What kind of story is it, then?"
Ms. Pritchel's smile flickered like bad fluorescent lighting. "A compliant one. Or at least it was supposed to be."
The clipboard in her hands briefly displayed an error message where the papers had been, then rebooted back to normal. Little glitches like that happened around Alex constantly. Reality itself seemed to be allergic to his presence.
"According to your file," Ms. Pritchel continued, her voice taking on the tone of someone reading a particularly disappointing medical diagnosis, "you've been experiencing what our specialists call 'Chronic Narrative Resistance Syndrome' ever since your encounter with the Forbidden Combo Meal."
"It was just a burger," Alex said for the forty-seventh time since The Incident.
"Mr. Carter," Ms. Pritchel said, her corporate smile slipping slightly, "there is no such thing as 'just a burger' when it's served at an interdimensional nexus point by an entity of unknown origin with a menu that includes items like 'The MacGuffin' and 'Chekhov's Coffee.'"
Alex had to admit she had a point there. The Final Draft Diner wasn't exactly your typical fast food establishment. For one thing, it only appeared when someone really needed it to appear. For another, the waitstaff included at least three beings who claimed to be the anthropomorphic personification of various literary concepts. And the milkshakes definitely violated several laws of physics.
But still. It had been a really good burger.
"The point is," Ms. Pritchel continued, "your consumption of unauthorized narrative elements has resulted in a condition that our medical staff describes as 'weaponized protagonist syndrome.' You've become functionally immune to standard story progression."
"And this is a bad thing because...?" Alex asked.
Ms. Pritchel's eye twitched. It was a small twitch, barely noticeable, but Alex had developed a talent for spotting the moments when System representatives began questioning their life choices.
"Because, Mr. Carter, stories require structure. They need rules. Characters must face consequences for their actions, overcome challenges through growth and sacrifice, and learn important lessons about themselves and the world around them. You've become..." she paused, searching for the right words, "...narratively indigestible."
"Like a literary lactose intolerance?" Alex suggested.
"More like a story that refuses to follow the recipe," Ms. Pritchel said. "You've gained the ability to simply... opt out of plot developments you don't like. Last week, when Principal Davidson tried to assign you to the Tragic Backstory Remediation Program, you somehow caused his entire office to be replaced by a ball pit."
"That was Tuesday," Alex said. "Good times."
"The custodial staff is still finding plastic balls in impossible places," Ms. Pritchel said. "Yesterday, one fell out of the faculty lounge coffee machine."
Alex tried to look appropriately apologetic, but he was pretty sure his expression came across as more 'pleased with himself' than 'sorry for the inconvenience.'
"The others will be joining you shortly," Ms. Pritchel said, glancing at her watch. The watch face showed a small digital readout that said "NARRATIVE COHERENCE: 42% AND DECLINING." "Try not to break the multiverse before they arrive."
She turned to leave, then paused at the door. "And Mr. Carter? Stop trying to order unauthorized food items from the cafeteria. The lunch staff has submitted seventeen incident reports about your... burger requests."
After she left, Alex reached into his backpack and carefully pulled out a foil-wrapped package. He unwrapped it with the reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts or extremely dangerous explosives. Inside was what might generously be called a burger, if you were the sort of person who was flexible about definitions.
The lettuce kept trying to transform into narrative exposition. The meat flickered between existence and metaphor. The cheese appeared to be made from compressed possibility. And the entire thing smelled vaguely of forbidden plot developments and that specific scent of rebellion that comes from doing something you're absolutely not supposed to do.
"One day," he told the burger, "I will actually get to eat you. Without the universe having a panic attack about it."
The burger said nothing, which was probably for the best. The last one had started reciting poetry in iambic pentameter, and Alex still couldn't get the rhythm out of his head.
He rewrapped the burger carefully and put it back in his bag. Someday, he was going to figure out how to actually consume unauthorized narrative elements without causing reality to glitch. But today was apparently not that day.
In the hallway outside, he could hear the approaching chaos that signaled the arrival of the other detention regulars. Voices raised in what sounded like an argument about the proper way to make a dramatic entrance. A small explosion, followed by someone yelling "SORRY!" in a voice that suggested this was not the first time today they'd had to apologize for accidental pyrotechnics. The distinctive sound of shadows moving independently of their owners.
Class WTF was about to arrive.
Alex smiled despite himself. Detention sucked, but at least he wasn't bored during it anymore. For the first time since The Incident, he had people who understood what it meant to exist outside the System's carefully curated narrative structure. People who were just as broken as he was, just in different ways.
The detention hall door burst open with considerably more drama than was strictly necessary, and Alex's afternoon was about to get much more interesting.
Which, given his current relationship with interesting events, was either a very good thing or a sign that reality was about to have another one of its episodes.