Five hundred fifty dollars.
The sum imprinted on the receipt burned in my consciousness like a red-hot brand. I stood in the middle of my miserable studio, surrounded by several dense plastic bags from which emanated a mixed aroma of fresh wood, chemical glue and treated leather. This smell, the smell of potential, was the only thing keeping me from a panic attack.
Five hundred fifty dollars, blown on upcoming experiments. Enormous, unaffordable money for John Thompson, and for me in my current position. I sincerely, almost childishly, hoped this venture would pay off a hundredfold. Because, looking at these purchased goods, I clearly understood: if nothing works out, if the "technology" I get from the first roll turns out to be useless trash, and not the Holy Grail or at least a golden goose, then I... will have to work off these expenses. Long. Painfully. Selling hot dogs on a street corner or washing dishes in some dingy diner.
However, if I soberly weighed all the risks... what was I really losing? Debt on a credit card that can be restructured or simply ignored by fleeing to another state? Reputation and college education that I couldn't care less about? All this was dust compared to what I'd already lost, and what I could gain.
As a last resort, my arsenal always had a trump card, the cheat inventory. The temptation was great. To imagine how easily all financial problems could be solved: first, under cover of night, place a secured door in inventory, then enter some jewelry store, "inhale" into inventory a couple trays of diamonds and calmly exit. But I drove these thoughts away. I sincerely didn't want to step onto this slippery path. Not because of some abstract moral code, but for purely practical considerations. In this world, teeming with telepaths, mages, genius detectives, street vigilantes with super-hearing and all-seeing government organizations, it's too easy to attract unwanted attention. Attention from those whose even desirable presence in your life is better to exclude. So for now I'll try to be an honest guy. An ordinary working man... with a magic pocket and a credit card.
Now the main question, where to start? There really were many options. I carefully laid out all the purchased goods on the single table, and this sight, this craftsman's still life, calmed my nerves a bit.
First, and most obvious, my somewhat native element, woodworking. I lovingly ran my fingers over the handles of a new set of chisels and carving tools. Next to them lay sheets of sandpaper of various grits, a small but sharp hacksaw, a can of varnish and, of course, several blocks of linden and pine. The plan was simple: test various variations. Start with a simple decorative figurine, then move to something more functional, like a box or at least a spoon. I needed to understand whether there was a correlation for the system between things created for art and utilitarian objects. What does it value more: beauty or utility?
Second, mechanics and engineering. Since I mentioned a potato gun, I must keep my word. Are you a man or what? The spud gun will happen, and this is non-negotiable! There were literally hundreds of variations of this engineering masterpiece on the internet, from simplest to almost semi-professional. I settled on a basic, time-tested design. For it I bought several PVC pipes of different diameters, caustic plastic glue, a piezo element for ignition from an old lighter, fittings and a canister of propane-butane mixture. I was damn interested in how the system would evaluate this craft. Would it be considered a "weapon"? And how many OP would it give? I was almost certain it would be in the tens. After all, a spud gun is a spud gun even in the Avengers' world!
Third, leatherworking. Initially I wanted to get clay, but quickly realized that for full ceramics work I'd need a muffle furnace for firing, and all I had was a two-burner mini-stove. So I decided to hold off on clay and took a starter leather working kit: several thin pieces of vegetable tanning, a sharp awl, set of punches, spool of waxed thread and special needles. Utility knife and metal ruler were universal tools. The plan, following internet guides, make myself a simple wallet-cardholder. Something practical and durable.
Before starting work, I allowed myself a small ritual left over from my past life. I brewed strong black coffee in John's old Turkish coffee pot, which I'd polished to a shine. The aroma filled the tiny studio, momentarily overpowering the smell of cheap wallpaper and poverty. Sitting at the table loaded with tools and materials, I looked at this abundance and felt an almost forgotten anticipation. This wasn't just starting work. This was a statement.
In my old world every new project started like this, with a cup of coffee and quiet planning. This was the time when I mentally rehearsed each stage: from first cut to final polish. Now, in this alien body and alien apartment, this simple ritual became a bridge connecting my past self with my present self. It reminded me that despite all this Marvel tinsel, at my core I remained the same. I'm a person who takes the chaos of materials and transforms it into the order of things. And it doesn't matter what I create, a stool, a spud gun or, possibly, someday, something capable of saving the world. The process remains sacred.
Once more surveying my improvised workbench and running through the next steps in my head, I decided not to overcomplicate and start in order. With wood. With what was familiar and close to me. If this helps me earn the remaining 50 OP, I'll be incredibly happy. And everything else will count toward farming for the next roll.
"So, what should I carve so the system clearly interprets it as a wooden figurine? And at what exact stage will it register the work's completion?" I voiced the obvious question aloud, picking up a small linden block about the size of my fist.
The moment my fingers touched the warm, smooth wood, I felt... relief. Deep, almost physical. The light, sweetish smell of linden, its pliable, homogeneous structure, all this was painfully familiar, native. This was part of my old world, a tangible anchor in this ocean of madness. Not paper cranes and not student lectures. Real work.
I picked up the carving tool, and its wooden handle fit in my palm perfectly. For a moment I closed my eyes, and an image flashed brightly in memory: I'm sitting on the freshly planed porch of my house, summer sun warming my back. Next to me squats the neighbor's six-year-old boy, Lyoshka, watching with mute admiration as from under my hands, from exactly the same linden block, appears a simple wooden horse. I remember how I handed it to him, and how his face lit up with pure, sincere joy. A simple moment from a life I no longer have.
The pain from this thought was sharp as the blade of the carving tool in my hand. I froze for a second, looking at the wooden block. This won't be just a figurine. This is a ghost from the past, a materialized memory. And I suddenly thought, what if the system reads not only complexity and materials. What if it also reads emotional investment? Intent? After all, that horse for Lyoshka wasn't just a craft. A bit of warmth was invested in it, a desire to please a child, a piece of soul. And what am I investing now? Cold calculation. Thirst for OP. I'm a craftsman in a deal with the devil, and my work is merely currency. I wonder, will the system appreciate the difference? If I carve this figurine with the same warmth as that horse, will I get more points? Or for a soulless mechanism is all this just variables in a formula? I smirked. Trying to deceive or evoke pity from a universal artifact is foolishness. But I'll still try to invest in the smooth curves of the figurine not only skill, but also that very feeling of quiet joy from creation. Just for myself.