The next day after Bella's extravagant dinner, the world awoke to shocked headlines. On every TV screen, online news website, and social media platform, a message boomed: a massive meteoroid was on its way to Earth. The source of the previous eclipse—the mysterious, blinding beam that had struck Elon under the bridge—was found to be connected with this cosmic event. Experts had calculated the estimate that the meteoroid, a fragment of a billion-year-old collision in the universe, would eventually crash to the planet—maybe in 70 to 80 years. The atmosphere was charged with fear in the newsrooms, as analysts marveled at the potential effects, planetary defense strategies, and how human beings would behave in the coming decades.
On a cramped, messy apartment that was his sanctuary, Elon sat and listened to the news with arid interest. The radiant smiles of scientists at press conferences and computer models of the trajectory of the meteoroid filled his head with celestial awe—though he was unmoved. To him, the distant chance of an alien boulder impacting Earth in a couple of decades was another background feature in the vast tapestry of his new venture.
He sat back in his weathered chair, the blue face of the strange system still echoing on in the depths of his mind. The potential for women and money through the system, however, was all that really concerned him. With now having gotten himself set with his previous sessions and cruising his own balance further up, his focus now lay with his final system assignment: completing the missions he had been given through the Licking Dog System.
To Elon, the meteoroid was mere cosmic trivia—a headline to be put aside as irrelevant. His focus was already on the next thing. A streaming platform, full of live streams and fervent online fandoms, was beckoning him like an open range. He recalled the tantalizing notion of watching upstart and veteran streamers enthrall viewers with their personality, and he knew where to look to find his next prize.
That evening, after the meteoroid breaking news shock had seeped into the din of quotidian existence, Elon logged on to his go-to streaming platform. The platform was silky-smooth, with a grid of names and faces vying for virtual love. His eyes roamed across live chat feeds, donation levels, and emoticons filling the screen. Among them all, one feed stuck out.
Her screen name was "CelestialGoddess," and she streamed for charity in the comfort of a warm, tastefully designed studio. The studio was laden with warm, soft light that accentuated the lovely décor—a mix of contemporary artwork and antiques. The streamer herself was sultry. With cascading, silky black hair that reached her shoulders, she was dressed in a simple but stylish outfit: a fitted ivory blouse with a pleated skirt that accentuated her wiry, athletic build. Thin-rimmed glasses added an aura of contained intelligence to her dramatic face. While she wasn't one of the favorites on the site, there was something about the way she communicated with her small but very active following that was impossible to resist.
Elon's internal computer softly beeped a message as he hovered above her live stream.
Ding!
"New target acquired: CelestialGoddess. Favorability rating: 10/100."
Elon smiled, glad the system had already paid her a first deposit—a figure which was so full of hope of return with good investing. He thought about his plan: offer her much, lay the foundation, and play the favor back to him in the long term until the system paid him back in whole. With enthusiasm burning through his chest, he calculated his next move.
Biting his lip, Elon clicked the donate button. The streaming interface prompted him to enter how much he was donating, and without pause, he entered "100,000." The number blinked on the screen, a harsh reminder of what he was about to do. A confirm box popped up, and with a split-second dreamlike hesitation, he confirmed the transaction.
The live chat burst into applause in seconds. "Wow, thanks for the donation!" and "Who's that nice person?" flashed by rapidly on the screen. CelestialGoddess paused, her eyes wide behind her glasses, and a radiant smile spread over her face as she accepted the donation. In a loud, cheerful voice that concealed the underlying commerce of it all, she spoke to the microphone.
Thanks so, so much for that amazing gift! You just totally made my day," she gushed, her tone syrupy and honeyed. "I just can't wait to share this with all of you!"
To Elon, no problem. The system whirred along quietly in his mind as it recalculated the favorability scores on his target.
Ding!
"Target favorability increased: +20. New value: 30/100."
Elon allowed himself a slight smile. A 100k donation was an investment—an investment that would definitely change the terms of their involvement. And yet, watching her to continue streaming, he sensed subtle tells in her body language. CelestialGoddess's eyes sparkled with excitement, but there was also learned reserve, a hint that her excitement was perhaps only a facade.
Once the stream had concluded and the platform notifications had died down, Elon messaged directly through the platform's chat function. It was simple, to the point: "I'd love to meet you in person soon. Let's make this donation worth it with a good chat. –Elon."
Her reply was instant. "Oh, Elon, you're too sweet! I'd love to meet you. How about we schedule something later this week?"
A momentary rush of self-satisfaction ran through him. The plan was working out exactly the way he'd planned. But Elon better than anybody else recognized the drama going on—she was tagging along with it, acting a little, as if every sentence she spoke was lines to get respect. He knew all this was a facade; the system had conditioned him to see through these masks. But he couldn't help laughing at the absurdity of it. That a donation, an act of pure money charity, was the opening shot at enslaving a willing slave was almost laughably surreal.
For the next few days, Elon plotted carefully for their encounter. He chose a sophisticated, upscale café famous for bohemian chic and sinful desserts—a marriage of refinement and easy informality. The day of his appointment arrived in the morning, and Elon's punctuality was early, the demeanor reserved but assured. The coffee shop featured an exposed brick interior of walls, modern art, and a calming background thrum of jazz. There was the aroma of roasted coffee beans and warm baked croissants wafting through the air.
CelestialGoddess—later discovered to be named correctly Mira—arrived precisely on time. She looked every bit as dignified as she had when they spoke on the stream. She was dressed fashionably: a chic pale blue blazer over a crisp white top teamed with a midi skirt that swirled flirtatiously around each step. Her glasses perched on the bridge of her nose added to her air of intellectual charm, and she had also reconciled with muted natural colors that suited her high cheekbones and wide, smiling mouth.
Elon grinned and waved in greeting. "Mira, nice to meet you in person," he said, extending his hand. There was a firm but fleeting touch—a handshake that was sufficiently long that both could remember it later—before Mira's face relaxed into the professional politeness of a business handshake and not a greeting one.
They sat at a corner table facing the street outside, which was bustling with people. The conversation began slowly with casual remarks on the décor of the café and both of them making comments about the weather on that day. But soon the conversation turned to the donation that had arranged for the date.
I just can't even believe someone donated 100k on my stream," Mira laughed, a touch of incredulity in the laugh. "It's just. surreal."
Elon smiled, choosing his words with care. "I believe one owes goodness. Sometimes a grand act can open new doors.".
Mira's eyes blazed behind her glasses, and for a fleeting instant, her laughter was real. But Elon had watched before—she was playing the part of the grateful recipient, the loquacious internet star who relies upon the benevolence of her public to preserve her persona. Even while laughing, he could see that every precision-cut intonation was an action done consciously to preserve her persona.
The discussion continued with rapid responses surrendering to interludes of reflective silence. Every now and again, Mira would creep forward, her tone little more than a whisper, as if sharing a secret, then retreat in haste, her eyes firing with passion and a hint of caution. Elon picked up on the subtle cues and let the internal monologue of the system interpret between the lines.
Ding!
"Target favorability updated: +10 (conversation). New total: 40/100."
Elon's thoughts strayed with possibilities. He knew that after she reached her level of popularity, the game world would trigger a reward multiplier—a variable component that could drive his reward to infinite levels. But for the moment, at least, it was clear to him: how he would methodically and incrementally build step by step, incrementally Mira as a target goal to finally bestow upon his cerebral encroaching his way. His goal wasn't to be an expense account—rather, it was to execute the mission of the system, to stretch to the limit of how much he could do with what he could do in this new role.
Over dinner, Elon offered Mira more than a conversation. Between courses, he grudgingly gave small, but thoughtful, favors—a second of fine coffee here, a perfectly cooked dessert there. Each gesture of generosity, small as it compared to the 100k donation, was calculated to raise her favorability rating. The system hung back to provide feedback with silent, mechanical precision.
Mira's initial restraint eventually dissolved into a style which alternated between forced enthusiasm and cautionary reserve. In a second, when conversation had wandered into the realm of dreams and desire, she leaned forward a bit, her eyes un-furring as though she was on the verge of exchanging some interior self with them. She then held herself back again, quickly re-fashioning her face into a smooth smile.
Elon watched it all with the unengaged interest of one who had long ago mastered the art of reading between the lines. The entire performance was almost as if a play—a drama performed on the stage of life in which every gesture, every phrase, was a calculated step toward upholding an image. And yet, beneath the facade, he perceived a vulnerability that he could take advantage of.
When the bill came, it was a five-figure short of the five-figure high their eyes ached to see. Elon paid it with his enigmatic card, the exchange calm and unruffled. Signing the receipt, Mira watched with each step he took, with a blend of thanks and something else—perhaps curiosity, perhaps a spark of real affection.
As they were getting ready to go, on the sidewalk outside the café in the soft glow of streetlights, Mira rose to her feet and smoothed a wayward lock of hair back behind her ear. "Thanks, Elon," she murmured, her voice carrying the patina of simulated emotion. "Tonight was. totally terrific.".
Elon tilted his head to one side, his mouth curling up in a slight, wry smile. "It was my pleasure, Mira. I'm glad you enjoyed it."
And then, in one easy, spontaneous but well-practiced motion, Mira leaned down and kissed him on the cheek—a brief light touch of lips which deposited a fine lingering trail of her characteristic perfume. It was brief but warm kiss, the final action in an orchestrated play.
As Mira vanished into the shadows, Elon remained on the sidewalk, encircled by the soft murmurs of her goodnight, the voice of the system humming in his brain for the final time that evening.
Ding!
"Target favorability increased: +5 (most recent interaction). New rating: 45/100."
Elon breathed slowly, a mixture of pleasure and dry resignation moving through him. He understood tonight was a step—a deliberate step in the game he played. Each expensive donation, each one of the immaculately staged meetings, was another segment in the puzzle in the game that would eventually lead to the full activation of the Licking Dog System's function.
Steping out of the café into the cool night air, Elon's thoughts were still occupied with the story of the meteoroid that he had watched on the internet. 70 to 80 years was quite all of human history had before the rock collided with Earth, but his intention of doing what he wished was not in those many years. For him, his desire was everything—all the timeline required was his ambition.
For Elon, opportunity was equal to time. Flying around the city streets under a starry night sky with distant peril, he was already strategizing what was next. The online streaming channel, the next present, the next set appointment—all were stepping stones to his ultimate goal of running the system and taking what he believed was his.
With the soft wind hooting hope of triumph to be in his ears, and with the black loneliness closing round him in stillness, Elon smiled. His drama was yet but at its start, and he was player as well as master-mind in the great theatre of the world, on the point of making his own fortune step by measured step.