Chapter 2: Life.exe

Dave Parson stared at the pulsing icon on his screen, his fingers poised over the keyboard like a concert pianist about to perform a concerto. The lowercase 'l' inside the perfect circle seemed to mock him, its rhythmic blue glow syncing with the ticking of the clock on his microwave—a clock that hadn't told the correct time since the Obama administration.

"Alright, Life.exe," Dave muttered, cracking his knuckles. "Let's see what you've got."

His first instinct was to right-click the icon. A normal person might have hesitated, but Dave wasn't normal. He was the kind of guy who'd once spent three days reverse-engineering a toaster because it kept burning his Pop-Tarts in patterns that resembled crop circles. Right-clicking was child's play.

The context menu appeared. It was... unusual. Instead of the usual options like "Open," "Delete," or "Properties," there was a single line of text: *"Are you sure you want to proceed?"*

Dave blinked. "Am I sure? Buddy, I've been sure since the moment you hijacked my smart fridge. Let's do this."

He clicked "Yes."

The screen flickered. Not the normal kind of flicker that happens when your graphics card is about to give up the ghost, but a deep, resonant flicker that seemed to warp the very fabric of reality. For a brief moment, Dave swore he could see the pixels on his monitor vibrating like they were alive.

Then, the installation bar appeared.

It was the most infuriating installation bar Dave had ever seen. For starters, it didn't have a percentage. Instead, it displayed a series of cryptic messages that cycled every few seconds:

*"Calibrating existential parameters..."*

*"Initializing quantum flux capacitors..."*

*"Reconfiguring your perception of reality..."*

Dave leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "Oh, great. It's one of *those* installations. The kind that thinks it's being clever by not telling you how long it's going to take."

He grabbed a can of energy drink from the tower of empties beside his desk, popped the tab, and took a swig. The liquid tasted like regret and artificial lime, but it did the job. He was going to need all the caffeine he could get if this installation was going to be as obnoxious as it seemed.

The minutes ticked by. The messages continued:

*"Synchronizing with the cosmic background radiation..."*

*"Downloading interdimensional updates..."*

*"Please wait. The universe is buffering..."*

Dave's patience, already thinner than the margins on his coffee machine report, began to wear thin. "Buffering? What is this, 2005? Who buffers anymore?"

He slammed his fist on the desk, causing a stack of old pizza boxes to topple over. The installation bar didn't care. It just kept cycling through its absurd messages, the blue icon pulsing like a smug little heartbeat.

Then, the lights flickered.

Not just the lights in his apartment—every light. The monitors, the LED strips he'd rigged up to change color based on his mood (currently: "frustrated orange"), even the glow-in-the-dark stars he'd stuck to the ceiling as a joke. For a split second, everything went dark, and Dave felt a strange, staticky sensation in the air, like the room itself was holding its breath.

When the lights came back on, the installation bar had changed. Now it read:

*"Warning: Installation may cause minor temporal disturbances."*

Dave raised an eyebrow. "Minor temporal disturbances? What does that even—"

Before he could finish, the smart fridge beeped. Not its normal, cheerful beep, but a deep, ominous tone that made Dave's spine tingle. He turned to look at it just as the display screen lit up with a single word:

*"RUN."*

Dave didn't run. Running was for people who hadn't spent years staring into the abyss of buggy code and lived to tell the tale. Instead, he grabbed a screwdriver from his desk drawer and approached the fridge like a man preparing to perform open-heart surgery on a particularly stubborn patient.

"Alright, fridge," he said, prying off the front panel. "Let's see what's got you so spooked."

Inside, the circuitry was a mess of wires and chips, all humming with an unnatural energy. Dave's eyes narrowed as he spotted something unusual: a small, glowing module that hadn't been there before. It pulsed in time with the Life.exe icon on his computer.

"Well, that's not creepy at all," Dave muttered, poking the module with his screwdriver. It responded by emitting a high-pitched whine that made his teeth ache.

The whine grew louder, spreading through the apartment like a wave. The monitors flickered again, their screens filled with static. The microwave, which hadn't worked properly in years, suddenly sprang to life, its display flashing random numbers. Even the coffee machine—the infamous Brew-Master 3000—began to gurgle ominously, as if it were trying to warn him.

Dave stood in the center of the chaos, his screwdriver still in hand, and took a deep breath. "Okay, this is officially weirder than the time I found a bug in the firmware of a smart toothbrush."

He returned to his computer, where the installation bar was now displaying a new message:

*"Electrical interference detected. Please remain calm."*

Dave snorted. "Remain calm? You're the one causing the interference, you digital maniac."

The pulsing icon seemed to grow brighter, its blue light casting eerie shadows across the room. Dave's monitors flickered again, and this time, they didn't come back on. Instead, they displayed a single line of text, repeated over and over:

*"Life.exe is inevitable."*

Dave stared at the screens, his mind racing. This wasn't just a bug. This wasn't just a glitch. This was something bigger—something that defied explanation. And yet, despite the growing sense of dread in the pit of his stomach, he couldn't help but feel a thrill of excitement.

This was what he lived for. This was why he'd become a quality assurance tester in the first place. Not to file boring reports about mundane software issues, but to uncover the hidden flaws in the systems that governed the world. And right now, it seemed like he'd stumbled onto the mother of all flaws.

The lights flickered again, and this time, they stayed off. The only illumination in the room came from the pulsing icon on his computer screen, its blue light casting an otherworldly glow over the chaos.

Dave sat down at his desk, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. "Alright, Life.exe," he said, a grin spreading across his face. "Let's see what you're really made of."

The installation bar responded with a new message:

*"Proceeding to Phase 2: Integration."*

And then, everything went black.