There are many things you can prepare for in the apocalypse. Zombie hordes. Rogue AI. Mutant squirrels with vendettas. But Rafael had never prepared for religious zealotry centered around a kitchen appliance.
The Cult of the Eternal Microwave greeted them at the threshold of Spiral Sector Gamma, just beyond the broken ferris wheel that now served as a sniper nest and taco stand.
"Blessed be the Dial, brethren!" cried a woman in a gold foil robe. "He comes bearing the Mark of Reheat!"
Rafael instinctively checked his chest. Someone had stuck a peeling microwave sticker on his coat. Probably Stanley.
"You've got to stop doing that," Rafael muttered.
Stanley grinned. "They love it. Also, free food."
[System Alert: You have entered a Level 3 Religious Zone. Caution: Faith may override logic.]
The cultists surrounded them with warm smiles and piping hot lasagna trays. It would've been charming if they hadn't all been armed with ladles and forks forged from melted vending machines.
"Is it true," asked a wide-eyed teen acolyte, "that you know the Sacred Sequence?"
Rafael blinked. "The what now?"
"The Holy Key Combo," the teen whispered. "Defrost, Popcorn, Reheat, Power Level 6."
Stanley gave a solemn nod. "The forbidden combo."
Before Rafael could protest, he was dragged into a temple fashioned from broken microwaves. Each one hummed slightly, and somewhere in the center, a single microwave stood on a pedestal—unplugged, but pulsing with faint light.
"This is the One," said the cult leader, stepping forward. He wore a hat made from turntables and smelled faintly of burnt cheese. "You will speak with it."
Rafael stared. "What do you mean speak—"
[Quest Alert: Commune with the Eternal Microwave. Optional: Do not insult it.]
He sighed and stepped forward. "Right. Let's talk, appliance."
The moment his hand touched the handle, a surge of static jolted through his arm. His vision swam. The world melted into swirling clocks and sizzling sounds. He wasn't in the temple anymore.
He was somewhere else—somewhen else.
He stood in a gleaming white kitchen, the kind only seen in showroom catalogs and alternate timelines where the rent was reasonable. The microwave stood before him, clean, chrome, and humming with a cosmic resonance.
"Rafael Vagathris," it said. Its voice was the perfect blend of Morgan Freeman and a vintage oven timer. "You have summoned me. Why?"
"I didn't exactly have a choice," Rafael replied. "Your cult dragged me in here. Something about popcorn?"
"You are out of balance. Your timeline splinters. Your logic spirals like a poorly mixed casserole. You must choose: Reheat your past or Defrost your future."
"That's... weirdly profound. And vaguely threatening."
[System Notification: You are now in a Temporal Microwave Construct. Estimated duration: 3 minutes or until overcooked.]
"Great," Rafael muttered. "More pressure."
The microwave's door swung open with a hiss. Inside, instead of a turntable, there was a swirling vortex of moments: flashes of Rafael's past iterations, fractured quests, broken worlds, and one unfortunate dance-off incident involving radioactive salsa.
"I can't fix all this," he whispered.
"You don't have to," said the microwave. "Only remember what burned you and learn to stir more often."
Before he could ask what that even meant, the construct beeped.
[DING!]
He gasped, eyes snapping open back in the temple. Cultists were bowing. Stanley was eating a breadstick. The microwave on the pedestal was now cold and quiet.
"Did it speak to you?" the cult leader asked reverently.
Rafael rubbed his face. "Yeah. I think I just had a mystical cooking lesson."
Stanley held out a plate. "Breadstick?"
Rafael took it. "Let's get out of here before someone asks me to baptize a toaster."
They exited the temple amid chants of "Popcorn, Popcorn, Holy Corn!" and crossed the rusted threshold of Spiral Sector Gamma.
[Quest Complete: Commune with the Eternal Microwave. Reward: +1 Culinary Wisdom, -1 Sanity.]
As they walked toward the next chaotic glimmer on the horizon, Rafael sighed. "Do you think there's a cult for toasters?"
"Absolutely," said Stanley. "But they're more... crispy."
Rafael groaned.
They traveled in silence for a while, passing fields of sun-bleached mannequins and road signs that led nowhere. The silence was broken when Rafael spotted an altar made entirely of stacked microwaves at the side of the road, like a shrine for lost leftovers.
"Hey, look," Rafael said, pointing. "A roadside monument."
Stanley peeked inside the top microwave. "Someone left a meatloaf in here. Still warm."
"This entire world has a problem," Rafael muttered.
They stopped for a quick rest at a broken-down gas station converted into a soup stand. A cultist approached them again, handing Rafael a pamphlet titled The Seven Sacred Settings and You.
"Nope," Rafael said, handing it right back. "One mystical vision per day is my hard limit."
Before they continued their journey, Stanley scribbled something in his journal labeled Possible Factions to Exploit. Under today's entry, he wrote: "Microwave Cult - oddly helpful, extremely flammable. Potential allies?"
They walked into the blazing sunset, the air heavy with the scent of old oil and stale popcorn. Whatever came next, Rafael had a feeling it would involve fewer breadsticks and more existential dread.
"You ever wonder," Stanley said, "if all the kitchen appliances are secretly plotting against us?"
"No," Rafael replied. "But thanks for the new anxiety."
And with that, they vanished into the dust-choked twilight, one step closer to whatever fresh nonsense the apocalypse would throw at them next.
***