Chapter 4 — The Problem With Being Broke
When I woke up the next morning, sunlight slapped my face like it had a personal grudge against me. It streamed through the thin curtains, warm and irritating, and for a moment I didn't remember where I was.
Then reality settled in.
Marvel.
My workshop.
My drone floating silently above the bed like a loyal metal ghost.
And an armory's worth of stolen gear piled in crates across the room.
Right.
My life now.
I stretched, bones aching from yesterday's break-in, mind buzzing with unfinished ideas. The kind of buzzing that meant I would normally spend the next twelve hours tearing apart gadgets, rewiring circuits, muttering to myself like a deranged raccoon in a dumpster.
But before I could indulge in any of that, my stomach growled.
Loudly.
I sat up slowly, rubbing my eyes.
"…I forgot to buy food."
Actually, no.
I didn't "forget."
I couldn't afford any.
For all the technology I could build, all the mad genius I held in my skull, all the weapon upgrades I dreamed of for my drone… I had maybe three dollars and a handful of coins in my pocket.
The kind of money that made vending machines laugh at me.
I looked at the drone hovering nearby.
It hummed, almost questioning.
"I know," I muttered. "It's humiliating."
Being broke was the one weakness I couldn't outsmart with engineering and stolen police equipment.
I needed money.
Fast.
The First Realization
I wandered into the kitchen—or what passed for a kitchen. A rusted sink, a microwave older than I was, and a fridge that had started making noises I could only describe as "death rattles."
I checked inside.
Two slices of bread, hard as bricks.
A single apple with a bruise the size of Texas.
Half a bottle of ketchup.
I shut the door.
"Nope. Absolutely not."
The drone beeped sympathetically.
Or mockingly. Hard to tell.
I leaned against the counter, arms crossed, forcing myself to think rationally.
I had no job.
No ID worth anything here.
No résumé that made sense in this universe.
And I certainly couldn't put
"Transmigrated mad scientist with criminal tendencies and a weaponized drone"
on an application form.
Even I had limits.
So I needed something temporary. Something low-level. Something that required no background checks and no real questions.
A job.
The word tasted sour in my mouth.
"I guess we're doing this," I muttered.
The drone spun in a slow circle, as if celebrating my misery.
Leaving the House
I changed into the least suspicious clothes I owned—
a clean hoodie, dark jeans, and shoes that didn't look like I'd crawled out of a sewer.
I tied back my hair, splashed water on my face, and looked at myself in the cracked bathroom mirror.
I didn't look like a mad scientist.
I looked like a tired teenager trying to pretend life wasn't crushing him.
Good.
Blending in mattered.
"Stay here," I told the drone.
It protested with a soft beep.
"No. Last thing I need is someone seeing you. People already freak out when Roombas move on their own."
Another beep.
But it complied.
I stepped outside into the warm morning air and locked the door behind me.
Time to find a job.
The worst mission yet.
The Search Begins
I walked into town, hands in my pockets, head down. It was a small coastal town—not too busy, not too empty. Exactly the kind of place where people noticed newcomers.
Banners hung across lampposts from some recent festival.
Kids biked down the sidewalk.
Cars passed lazily.
Ordinary.
Normal.
Safe.
I hated it.
But I needed their money.
I checked the first place I saw: a convenience store.
A handwritten sign taped to the door read:
HELP WANTED – MINIMUM WAGE – NIGHTS PREFERRED
Perfect. Nights meant fewer people.
I stepped inside.
A bored-looking manager stood behind the counter, sipping coffee and scrolling on his phone. Middle-aged, balding, with an expression that said he'd given up on life thirty years ago.
He barely glanced up at me.
"What do you need?" he asked, monotone.
"I'm here about the job."
Now he looked up.
"You got experience?"
"Yes," I lied immediately.
He raised an eyebrow.
"What kind?"
"I can handle inventory. Repairs. Security. Technology."
All true, just… not the way he imagined.
The manager squinted at me for a moment, trying to decide whether I was a kid who could lift heavy boxes or a kid who might rob the place.
"Can you work nights?" he asked finally.
"Yes."
"Can you speak to customers without sounding like you're dead inside?"
"…I can try."
He sighed like that was the closest thing he'd get to enthusiasm.
"Alright. Come back at seven for a trial shift."
And just like that—
I had a job.
A low-paying, boring, soul-crushing job.
But a job nonetheless.
Reality Sets In
As I walked out of the convenience store, the sun hit my face again and I felt something unusual.
Relief.
Not joy. Not pride.
Just a mild decrease in the crushing anxiety of existing.
A minimum-wage job wasn't glamorous.
It wasn't exciting.
It wasn't worthy of a mad scientist.
But it was a foundation.
Money meant parts.
Parts meant upgrades.
Upgrades meant power.
Power meant survival.
Every paycheck would go straight into my workshop.
Into weapons.
Into machines.
Into ideas I wasn't ready to admit out loud yet.
I walked back home, pace slow, mind buzzing with possibilities.
I wasn't working for the store.
I was working for myself.
For my future.
For whatever I was becoming.
The Drone's Reaction
When I came home and stepped back into the garage, the drone zipped off its charging perch and hovered in front of me instantly, emitting a questioning chirp.
"I got a job," I said.
It made a disappointed whine.
"Yeah, I know. But we need money. And we can't exactly rob banks on day three."
The drone tilted sideways skeptically, and I swear it looked judgmental.
"Don't give me that look."
It blinked red once.
"Fine. I'll find a better solution eventually. But for now, this is what we're stuck with."
The drone floated closer and tapped my forehead gently with its chassis.
A silent agreement.
We'd survive.
The Night Ahead
Seven o'clock was only a few hours away.
I spent the remaining time pacing in the garage, organizing tools, sorting wires, and mumbling ideas for improvements under my breath.
But for once, I didn't let myself dive into projects.
Work came first.
Money came first.
Stability—temporary, fragile, mundane—came first.
Because even mad scientists needed to eat.