Krunchers

The sun beat down on the backyard with a lazy, humid intensity that made the air feel thick and heavy. Chris grunted, heaving another 40-pound bag of dark red mulch out of the bed of Pete's pickup truck. The plastic was slick with condensation, and the bag's weight was unforgiving. His t-shirt, a faded black one with the logo for a long-disbanded esports team, was already plastered to his back with sweat. His muscles screamed in protest with every lift.

Pete stood a few feet away, hands on his hips, overseeing the operation with the grim satisfaction of a drill sergeant. He wasn't even sweating. He'd already moved six bags himself, each one lifted with a simple, efficient grunt of effort.

"Come on, Chris, put your legs into it," Pete said, his voice a familiar, gravelly mixture of encouragement and criticism. "You lift with your back like that, you're gonna be walking like a question mark for a week."

Chris didn't respond. He just dropped the heavy bag onto the wheelbarrow, the impact sending a puff of earthy-smelling mulch dust into the air. This was his personal hell. Not the fire-and-brimstone kind from Vexlorn, but a far more mundane, suburban version filled with manual labor and unsolicited advice from his step-father. He had a quest active in his log:

[Quest - Domestic Labor: Assist a Family Member!]

The reward was a hefty 30 XP, but at that moment, it felt like he was earning every single point.

He wheeled the mulch over to Misty's newly-weeded garden beds, a vibrant patch of green against the side of the house. He tipped the wheelbarrow, and the dark red mulch tumbled out, covering the soil in a neat, uniform blanket. That was the last of it. Twelve bags, moved from truck to garden. The chore from hell was finally over.

He stood up straight, wiping a sweaty forearm across his brow. He was about to trudge back to the house and collapse in his gaming chair for the rest of the decade when it happened.

A bright, beautiful notification flashed into existence in his vision, shimmering with a bright light that made the real world seem dull in comparison.

[Quest Completed! 30 XP Awarded!]

He watched his experience bar, a welcome sight that never got old. It had been nearly full. The new influx of 30 XP pushed it over the edge. The bar filled completely, glowing with a brilliant blue light. And then he heard it.

A triumphant, three-note fanfare, a cascade of pure, harmonic chimes, resonated in his mind. It was the sound of progress, the sound of victory, a sound far more satisfying than any real-world praise.

[Congratulations! You have reached LVL 4!]

A wide, goofy grin spread across his face, completely erasing the sweaty misery of a moment before. Level 4. The numbers were going up. He was getting stronger. The grind was paying off.

Pete, oblivious to the celebration happening inside Chris's head, clapped him on the shoulder, the gesture surprisingly gentle. "See? Wasn't so bad. Good work, Chris."

But Chris barely heard him. A second notification had appeared, this one even more exciting than the level-up. It shimmered with a different kind of light, a potent, promising glow.

[New Ability Unlocked: [Minor Probability Manipulation (Active Skill)]]

Chris stared at the words, his heart giving a happy little flutter. He read the name again. Minor Probability Manipulation. This was different from [INSPECT]. This wasn't a passive information-gathering tool. This was an active skill. This was something he could do. This sounded like a real power, a proper magic spell. It was a long way from the simple [Basic Hygiene] trait, that was for sure. His mind raced with possibilities. Did this mean he could alter dice rolls? Influence card games? Finally beat that one impossible level in Vexlorn that relied entirely on random loot drops? The potential was there.

"Chris? You with me?" Pete's voice cut through his reverie.

Chris blinked, snapping back to reality. "Yeah, yeah. No problem," he said, his voice full of a sudden, uncharacteristic enthusiasm. "Any other quests... uh, I mean, chores you need help with?"

Pete just gave him a strange look and shook his head. "No, that's it for today. Go get cleaned up. You smell like a bag of mulch."

Later that afternoon, after another glorious, XP-granting shower, Chris was lounging in his room when his mother called down the hall.

"Chris! Can you come out here for a minute?"

He trudged down the hall to find her in the kitchen, wiping down the counters. She turned to him with a smile and held out a crisp twenty-dollar bill and a short grocery list written on the back of a stray envelope.

"Chris, can you run into town and pick up some milk and bread?" she asked. "Pete's planning on making French toast in the morning, and we're all out."

Normally, this request would have been met with a sigh, a negotiation, or an attempt to pass on the chore. An errand. Driving. Interacting with the public. It was a whole sequence of events he usually avoided if he could.

But today was different. Today, he had a new toy to play with. This errand wasn't a chore; it was a field test.

"Sure thing, Mom," he said, taking the money and the list with a surprising eagerness.

Misty blinked, a look of pleasant surprise on her face. "Oh! Well, thank you. And maybe grab a bag of those spicy chips you like, too. My treat."

This was perfect. It was a mission. He had his objectives, and he had his secret weapon. He grabbed the keys to the family's SUV, a reliable but profoundly uncool vehicle, and headed out, his mind buzzing with a newfound sense of purpose.

During the ten-minute drive into the small town of Buckhannon, Chris focused his will and mentally pulled up his character sheet.

[QUESTS] [ABILITIES]

A new tab, labeled [ABILITIES], had appeared next to [QUESTS]. He selected it. A description of his new skill materialized in his vision, clear and concise.

[Minor Probability Manipulation (Active Skill) - Slightly increases the likelihood of a favorable outcome for a targeted event. Does not guarantee success. The more improbable the desired outcome, the less effective the nudge.]

[Requires: 0.25 EP]

He processed the information. He'd nicknamed it "The Nudge," which felt right. It wasn't mind control or telekinesis. It was a gentle push on the scales of fate. The EP cost was significant. His HUD showed he was at EP: 4.00/4.00, fully restored after his level-up. A quarter of a point per use meant he could only use it sixteen times before being completely tapped out. And he had no idea how EP regenerated. Did it come back over time like in most games? Did he have to sleep? Eat? Drink a blue-colored energy drink? He didn't know. This meant he had to be strategic. He couldn't just nudge everything. He had to pick his moments.

He arrived in downtown Buckhannon and drove down South Kanawha Street, where the local Shop 'n' Save was located. It was a squat, brick building that hadn't been renovated since 2018, nestled between a hardware store and a small law office. The parking lot, as usual for a weekday afternoon, was busy. It was nearly full, with cars circling like vultures, waiting for a spot to open up.

Finding a spot near the entrance was a game of pure chance, a frustrating dance of luck and timing.

This was the perfect first test.

Chris slowed the SUV to a crawl, his eyes scanning the front row. Every spot was taken. He focused his mind, not on a specific car or a specific spot, but on the abstract concept, the desired outcome itself. I want a prime parking spot to open up right now.

As he focused, a faint, shimmering golden aura, like a heat haze, washed over the entire front row of parked cars. It was the visual tell of his new ability, the targeting system for his nudge. This was his target. With a surge of will, a mental command of now, he activated the skill.

[EP: 3.75/4.00]

Around six percent of the bright blue bar on his HUD vanished in an instant. The golden aura flared for a moment, then faded.

He waited. For a moment, nothing happened. A beat-up Ford pickup truck zoomed past him and continued down the aisle. A woman pushed a shopping cart in front of him, forcing him to brake. His hope began to fade. Maybe the desired outcome was too improbable. Maybe it had failed.

And then, it happened.

Directly in front of the store's sliding glass doors, in the single most desirable parking spot in the entire lot, the reverse lights of a red minivan flashed on. The van, which had been dormant and seemingly settled in for the long haul, suddenly sputtered to life. It backed out slowly, its driver, a woman with a tired expression, craning her neck to look behind her.

The spot was open. A perfect, empty rectangle of asphalt, beckoning to him.

The driver of the minivan caught his eye. She gave him a small, friendly wave, as if to say, "go ahead, it's all yours."

Chris felt a giddy, triumphant laugh bubble up in his chest. He pulled the SUV into the spot, fitting it perfectly between the white lines. The success was small. It was utterly mundane. In the grand scheme of things, it meant nothing. But the feeling... the feeling was amazing. He had bent the world to his will, just a little bit.

Inside the bustling, brightly-lit Shop 'n' Save, Chris felt like a secret agent. He grabbed a shopping basket and moved with a newfound confidence. He quickly gathered the milk from the refrigerated section and a loaf of white bread from the bakery aisle. Misty's list was simple, and he had it completed in under five minutes.

But his personal quest, the true reason for his newfound enthusiasm for errands, lay in Aisle 5. The snack food aisle. He turned into the aisle, his heart beating with a strange mix of hope and anxiety. Aisle 5 was a massive, colorful wall of temptation, a floor-to-ceiling display of chips, pretzels, and cheese puffs. He scanned the shelves, his eyes searching for the familiar, bright red bag.

And then his heart sank.

He found the spot, a specific plastic cover with the price tag on the display rack that read "Inferno-Hot Krunchers." The hook was completely, utterly empty. Sold out. It was a common occurrence. The Krunchers were a local favorite, and their spicy, cheesy goodness was often in high demand.

A wave of genuine disappointment washed over him. He had gotten his hopes up. He had tasted a small victory in the parking lot, and now he was being met with the familiar, mundane defeat of a sold-out product.

He noticed a teenage employee a few feet away. The kid couldn't have been more than seventeen. He had a faint, wispy mustache, and his Shop 'n' Save vest was a size too big for him. He was restocking a display of plain, classic potato chips, pulling bags from a large, brown cardboard box and placing them on the display racks.

This was it. The second test. The parking spot had been a simple event. This was a more complex variable. This involved another person.

Chris took a deep breath. He focused his mind, not on the employee, but on the empty space on the rack. He targeted the abstract concept, the improbable desire: I want to find one last bag of Krunchers.

The empty metal rack shimmered with that faint, golden aura. He held his focus, picturing a bright red bag sitting there. He activated the skill.

[EP: 3.50/4.00]

Another portion of his energy bar vanished. The golden light flared and faded. Now for the hard part. He had to act. He had to create the opportunity for the nudge to work.

He walked toward the young store employee, his footsteps echoing softly on the linoleum floor. The kid was engrossed in his work, his movements mechanical and bored.

Before Chris could even open his mouth to speak, the employee turned around, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He looked at Chris with a tired, retail-worker's gaze.

"Can I help you find something?" the employee asked, his voice flat.

"Yeah, probably not," Chris started, his own hopes already low, "but I was looking for the Inferno-Hot Krunchers."

The employee's eyes lit up with a spark of recognition. "Oh, yeah, the Krunchers. Man, those things fly off the shelves. I think you just missed the last one. Thought we were totally out of those."

He started to turn away, his duty done. Chris's heart sank further. It hadn't worked.

But then, the employee paused. He stopped, tilting his head as if listening to a faint, distant sound. A flicker of confusion crossed his face. "Wait a sec," he muttered, more to himself than to Chris.

He turned back to the large, brown cardboard box he had been unpacking. The box was clearly, unambiguously labeled "Classic Potato Chips" in big, black letters. He had no logical reason to look inside it for a different product. But he did.

He reached deep inside the box, his arm disappearing up to his elbow. He rummaged around, the sound of crinkling chip bags echoing in the aisle.

"No way," the employee muttered, a look of genuine surprise on his face. He pulled his arm out. And in his hand was a single, solitary, gloriously bright red bag of Inferno-Hot Krunchers. "Huh. Must've gotten mixed in at the warehouse. This is your lucky day, man."

He held the bag out to Chris. Chris took it, his fingers closing around the crinkling plastic. It felt heavier than a normal bag of chips. It felt like a magic item, a rare drop from a defeated boss.

"Thanks," Chris said, his voice a little shaky. "Thanks a lot."

The kid just shrugged. "No problem." He turned back to his box of plain potato chips, the strange little anomaly already forgotten.

Chris sat in the driver's seat of the parked SUV outside the Shop 'n' Save. The engine was still off. The sounds of the parking lot—a car door slamming, the rattle of a shopping cart—seemed distant and unimportant.

In his lap rested the glorious, crinkling, bright red bag of Inferno-Hot Krunchers.

He stared at it, a slow, triumphant grin spreading across his face.

He had nudged a driver, who was probably already thinking about leaving, to leave at that exact, perfect moment. He had nudged an employee, a bored teenager just doing his job, to perform a small, illogical action—to check a box he had no reason to check. The power hadn't created a bag of chips out of thin air. It had just slightly increased the probability of a favorable outcome. It had capitalized on a packing error at a distant warehouse. It was subtle. It was elegant. And it was awesome!

He tore open the bag of chips, the sound a sharp, satisfying rip. The spicy, cheesy aroma filled the car. He picked out a single, perfectly-formed chip, coated in a thick layer of angry red seasoning powder.

He put it in his mouth.

The first Kruncher he ate tasted spicier, saltier, and more deliciously artificial than any chip he had ever had before.

It tasted like victory.