Chapter Two: The Cat is Now in Charge (and I Think He's Judging Me)
I woke up face-down in a pile of string cheese wrappers, a half-chewed stress ball stuck to my cheek, and a crystal labeled "Jim" glowing faintly under my armpit.
I wish I could say this was the weirdest Tuesday morning of my life, but it wasn't even the weirdest this week. Because as it turns out, when you inherit the job of "multiversal anchor" via spam filter error, things don't come with a grace period. Or instructions. Or snacks.
Jim—the cat, not the crystal (though I was beginning to suspect a deeper connection)—was perched on my chest like an eldritch gargoyle. His expression said, "You absolute fool," but his purr sounded like a subwoofer playing Gregorian chants backwards.
"Okay, Jim," I croaked. "What's the plan?"
Jim blinked once. Then the air in front of him shimmered like a bad PowerPoint transition and a glowing UI panel appeared midair. The top read:
"Reality Integrity: 47% — CRITICAL PANCAKE MODE"
Beneath it, bullet points:
Existential Drift Detected
Duck-Based Anomalies Increasing
Timeline Stutter in Sector B (aka my bathroom)
Snack Reserves: Low
"Pancake mode?" I said, squinting.
Jim tail-flicked and pressed a spectral button with one paw. The room spun, reconfigured itself like someone shuffling IKEA furniture through the fourth dimension, and suddenly we were standing—STANDING—in a glowing command hub made entirely of beanbags and slowly melting clocks.
Reality Admin Mode.
"I'm dreaming," I muttered.
Jim pressed another button labeled "No You're Not."
My stress ball exploded in my hand. The pieces floated up and solidified into tiny sentient clouds. One sneezed. A thunderstorm began in my sock drawer.
"Coolcoolcool," I said. "So things are… broken."
Jim typed something on a floating keyboard with exactly zero visible keys and summoned a projection of the multiverse. It looked like a rubber duck orgy inside a lava lamp.
"That's Sector D," said a voice behind me. It was the jelly-being from before, now wearing a sweater that said "WORLD'S OKAYEST COSMIC ENTITY."
"You're still here?" I groaned.
"I'm your onboarding mentor. Union rules."
"You couldn't have started with the part where my bathroom is stuttering through six dimensions?"
The being shrugged. "We thought you'd Google it."
"I tried! All I got were memes and a conspiracy subreddit that thinks reality is held together by Cheetos and good vibes!"
The jelly-being blinked both monocles. "It's not?"
Jim coughed. Or maybe he yawned. Either way, a hologram appeared of a very concerned-looking goose in a pinstripe suit demanding tribute in bread.
"That's a Councilor of the Waterfowl Uprising," the being explained. "Minor side effect of Ascension Delay Syndrome. Happens when an anchor's indecision allows latent chaos to seep through metaphorical cracks in spacetime. Also literal ones. Check your kitchen."
I ran to the kitchen. The toaster had grown eyes.
It whispered, "Release me."
I closed the door slowly.
Back in the command room, Jim was busy knocking over icons labeled "Stability Pylons" while the jelly-being watched with the resigned horror of a manager whose employee just CC'd their ex into a company-wide email.
I took a breath. Deep. Heroic. Probably full of ambient radiation.
"I'm not a chosen one. I'm not even a competent one. But if I'm holding this universe together with duct tape and disappointment, then by the gods of expired caffeine—I need help."
Jim blinked once. The room darkened.
A new button materialized: "Request Backup."
I hit it.
Big mistake.
Sirens. Flashing lights. A portal opened in the beanbag wall with all the drama of a Netflix special. Out stepped—
A teenager. Hoodie. Headphones. Massive bubble tea.
"What's up?" they said, sipping loudly.
The jelly-being made a choked buzzing noise. "You called in a Backup Anchor?! That's a Latchkey-class failsafe! They have teen energy!"
The kid ignored them. "Name's Kai. Got the ping. Heard your vibe's off and your cat's running the OS."
Jim gave them a nod of mutual understanding. They fist-bumped.
"Great," I muttered. "We're doomed."
"Nah," said Kai. "Just behind on updates. Here—install this."
They handed me a flash drive shaped like a rubber duck.
"Plug it into what?" I asked.
Kai pointed at my forehead.
Click.
Suddenly, my vision exploded into cascading windows: cosmic metrics, timeline graphs, snack inventory counters, something labeled "Ego Ratio (Yikes!)," and a download bar that read: "Installing Reality Patch 1.3: The Nap Date Edition."
Everything went white.
And then—stillness.
Calm.
My apartment reformed. My body stopped buzzing. My toaster looked… apologetic.
Jim curled up in my lap. The jelly-being sighed in relief.
Kai gave me a thumbs-up. "You'll be fine. Probably."
And just as quickly as they came, they vanished—leaving me with one new floating notification:
"Your reality is now stable (ish). Next major anomaly in: 3 days, 12 hours, 4 minutes."
Right below it?
Another email.
FROM: unknown@ethernet.cosmos
SUBJECT: Incoming Friend Request
MESSAGE: "Hey. Long time no vibe. Mind if I drop in?"
I stared.
Reality was stable.
But something—someone—was coming.
And judging by the sender name?
It wasn't friendly.
To be continued...