The decision, made in the sterile confines of an elevator sticky with Pad See Ew, felt both insane and irrevocably right.
Steve Ricker, the quintessential quirkless office drone, was about to dismantle his entire life.
The flickering image of the Cobblestone block, the phantom weight of it in an unseen inventory, hummed beneath his skin like a nascent energy source.
This wasn't just a new ability; it was a new paradigm. And it had to be protected.
His first coherent thought upon reaching his cramped apartment was a single, urgent directive: erase his digital footprint.
He spent the next three hours in a frantic, almost surgical operation. Bank accounts were emptied, the funds consolidated into untraceable cryptocurrency and a small stack of crisp, untraceable hundred-dollar bills.
His laptop was wiped clean, then physically destroyed with a hammer he kept for assembling IKEA furniture.
His phone followed. Social media accounts, sparse as they were, were deleted.
Every piece of digital breadcrumb that could lead back to Steve Ricker was systematically obliterated.
The process was exhausting, terrifying, and exhilarating. It felt like shedding old skin.
His apartment, a monument to beige existence, was stripped bare of anything personal.
Clothes he couldn't take were donated, books given away to a startled neighbor.
He kept only essentials: sturdy boots, durable clothing, a compact sleeping bag, a quality backpack he'd bought for a hiking trip he never took, a first-aid kit, and a large, high-capacity water filter.
Food was another matter. He'd need to learn to acquire it, but for now, energy bars and dried fruit would sustain him.
Quitting his job was unexpectedly easy.
A terse, pre-written email sent from an internet cafe burner account stated his immediate resignation due to "unforeseen personal circumstances."
He didn't wait for a reply.
He knew the HR department would be annoyed, but in a world with powered individuals causing daily mayhem, a sudden, unexplained resignation from a quirkless data entry specialist was barely a ripple.
He had always been invisible; now, he was simply evaporating.
By morning, Steve Ricker, the office worker, had ceased to exist.
The Journey
The destination was clear: the deepest, most untouched wilderness he could reach without attracting undue attention.
The American West offered vast, unpopulated expanses, but getting there would be a challenge.
He opted for a more clandestine approach.
After purchasing a used, nondescript sedan with cash, he plotted a course eastward, aiming for the Appalachian mountain range.
Its ancient, dense forests offered isolation, rugged terrain, and a canopy thick enough to hide any strange, blocky alterations he might accidentally inflict on the landscape.
The drive was a blur of highway miles, cheap motel rooms, and a growing sense of liberation.
Each mile that separated him from the city felt like a layer of societal expectation peeling away. He ate simple, slept fitfully, and allowed himself to ponder the ramifications of his new ability.
He kept an eye out for news—any reports of strange anomalies, missing persons, or sudden, inexplicable structures.
There were none. His power, whatever it was, seemed to be entirely his own, a secret anomaly in a world saturated with them.
Finally, after three days of relentless driving, he found his spot. It was a national forest, remote even by park standards, accessible only by a winding, unpaved road that deteriorated into a muddy track.
He parked his car off the main path, deep enough in the undergrowth to conceal it, and began his hike.
The forest enveloped him immediately.
The air was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth. Sunlight dappled through the dense canopy, creating a kaleidoscope of light and shadow.
The silence, broken only by birdsong and the rustle of leaves, was profound. This was it. His new home. His new laboratory.
First Days of Discovery
Steve spent the first few days simply existing, trying to recalibrate his senses to the wilderness.
He set up a rudimentary camp near a small, clear stream, his trusty water filter ensuring his survival.
He foraged for berries, remembering vague survival tips from a documentary he'd once watched, and used his camping stove to boil water for instant coffee.
But the true work, the work of understanding, gnawed at him.
He knew the basics: punch tree, get wood. Break stone, get stone. But how did he interact with his inventory? How did he craft?
He was holding a mental "Cobblestone (1)" but couldn't physically manifest it.
His breakthrough came on the morning of the fourth day. He was sitting on a fallen log, meticulously peeling an apple with his pocket knife.
He remembered the translucent UI that had appeared in the elevator.
UI… User Interface.
He closed his eyes, focusing, trying to mentally summon that overlay.
It didn't appear immediately, but then he recalled how he'd focused on the Cobblestone.
He looked at his hands, thinking of the "inventory" feeling.
Suddenly, a faint, almost ghost-like image flickered into his vision: a grid, small and humble, appearing to float just in front of his chest. It had nine empty squares.
Below it, a larger row of nine squares: his hotbar. And in the first square of the hotbar, rotating slowly, was the familiar textured block icon: Cobblestone (1).
"Holy crap,"
Steve whispered, his breath catching.
He concentrated on the floating Cobblestone icon in his hotbar.
Move it to my hand, he willed.
With a soft pop, the icon vanished from the hotbar.
In his physical hand, a perfect, rough, 16x16 block of Cobblestone materialized. It was heavy, tangible, and real. Steve nearly dropped it in surprise.
He manipulated it, turning it over and over. It felt solid, authentic. He could place it.
He extended his arm, thinking. A faint, translucent outline of the block appeared on the ground in front of him.
He pushed his hand forward, a faint click sound, and the Cobblestone block was now firmly embedded in the forest floor, indistinguishable from natural stone.Steve grinned, a genuine, unburdened smile that hadn't touched his face in years.
He could build. He could truly build.
His eyes fell on a nearby oak tree, massive and ancient. Its trunk was thick, its bark gnarled. He recalled the most basic, most fundamental action: punch wood.
He walked up to the tree, took a deep breath, and slammed his open palm against the rough bark.
The impact vibrated up his arm, but it wasn't painful. Instead, a familiar grid overlaid the trunk, and small, hairline cracks began to spiderweb across the bark.
The faint shik-shik returned, faster this time, accompanied by the distinct visual of blocks breaking down.
He kept punching, a primal rhythm emerging, his hands becoming conduits for an unseen force.
K-K-CRCK!
A perfect, cubic block of Oak Log popped out of the tree, hovering in the air.
Then another, and another, until the entire visible section of the trunk was gone, leaving a perfectly flat, blocky surface where the tree used to be.
The floating logs, a total of four, zoomed into his inventory, filling up the remaining hotbar slots.
He now had wood.
He had a stone.
The first step was complete. The office worker was gone. The adventurer, the crafter, the builder, was awakening.
He looked around the vast, silent forest, a world now brimming with raw materials.
His base. His stronghold. His escape.
The possibilities, like the forest itself, stretched out infinitely before him.