Jace Thorn's last thought, as the capacitor in the half-gutted microwave decided to throw a tantrum, was that he really should've worn gloves. That, and I hope the landlord finds my body before the smell gets suspicious.
The world suddenly went black. No tunnel of light, no angelic choir — just a fluorescent hum and the voice of what sounded like a strange mix of an IT helpdesk and a stand-up comic.
"System binding successful. Congratulations, organic host. Cause of death: negligence. Cause of revival: me. You're welcome."
Jace sat up, blinking. "Am I hallucinating, or did a ghostly tech support line just roast me back to life?"
"Incorrect. Not a ghost. Not support. You unplugged and I plugged you back in again. You now operate as a biological accessory to Patchwork: World Repair Protocol. Side effects may include shocking repairs, unplanned heroism, and occasional explosions. All with me by your side the whole time"
"…Perfect. I've always wanted to be a walking warranty voider."
Patchwork ignored him — which he determinedwas its default setting — and began installing something in his head called a "Repair Subsystem." No consent form, no tutorial, just boom, here's your upgrade, don't fry the neighbors.
The first "repair" opportunity came faster than a debt collector: the broken microwave in his garage buzzed like it was ready for round two. Patchwork downloaded the repair instructions into his head. Jace lost control of his motor functions. And instead of heating leftover pizza, the microwave fired off a localized EMP that probably knocked out the Wi‑Fi for half the block.
"Repair completed. Functionality improved. Network security increased by… eliminating networks."
Jace facepalmed. " That's the logic were using?"
Somewhere in the distance, a neighbor shouted about their Netflix buffering. Jace decided he wasn't telling them. Not yet. Let them think it's solar flares. Or karma.