Five hundred fifty dollars.
The amount imprinted on the check burned in my mind like a red-hot brand. I stood in the middle of my squalid studio, surrounded by several thick plastic bags that exuded a mingled aroma of fresh wood, chemical glue, and treated leather. This scent—the scent of potential—was the only thing keeping me from panicking.
Five hundred and fifty dollars spent on upcoming experiments. A huge, unaffordable sum for John Thompson, and for me, in my current situation. I sincerely, almost childishly, hoped this gamble would pay off handsomely. For, looking at these purchased goods, I clearly understood: if nothing came of it—if the "technology" I obtained from the first spin turned out to be useless junk instead of a golden grail or even a goose that laid golden eggs—then I… would have to work off those expenses. Long. Painfully. Selling hot dogs on a street corner or washing dishes in some seedy diner.
However, if I weighed all the risks soberly… what was I really losing? Credit-card debt, which I could restructure or simply ignore by fleeing to another state? My reputation and college education, which I couldn't care less about? All of that was nothing compared to what I'd already lost—and what I could still gain.
As a last resort, I always had a trump card—my cheating Inventory. The temptation was great. I imagined how easily I could solve all my financial problems: first, under cover of night, place a secure door in my inventory; then walk into a jewelry store, "sniff" a couple of trays of diamonds into storage, and calmly exit. But I pushed those thoughts away. I sincerely didn't want to tread that slippery slope. Not because of any abstract moral code, but for purely practical reasons. In this world teeming with telepaths, magicians, genius detectives, street avengers with hypersensitive hearing, and all-seeing government agencies, it was far too easy to attract unwanted attention—the kind you could never shake. So for now, I'd try to be an honest guy. An ordinary, hardworking guy… with a magic pocket and a credit card.
Now the main question: where to begin? There were truly many options. I carefully laid out all the purchased goods on the single table, and this sight—an artisan's still life—calmed my nerves a little.
First, and most obviously, woodworking was my natural element. I lovingly ran my fingers over the handles of a new set of chisels and gouges. Nearby lay sheets of sandpaper of varying grit, a small but sharp hacksaw, a can of varnish, and, of course, several blocks of linden and pine. The plan was simple: test various variations. Start with a simple decorative figurine, then move on to something more functional, like a box or at least a spoon. I needed to understand whether the System correlated things created for art's sake with utilitarian objects. What did it value more—beauty or utility?
Secondly, mechanics and engineering. Since I'd mentioned the potato launcher, I had to keep my word. Was I a man or what? The potato launcher was a must, and that wasn't up for debate. There were hundreds of variations of this engineering masterpiece online, from the simplest to nearly professional. I settled on a basic, time-tested design. For it, I bought several PVC pipes of various diameters, caustic plastic glue, a piezoelectric element from an old lighter, fittings, and a can of propane-butane mixture. I was incredibly curious to see how the System would evaluate this contraption. Would it be considered a weapon? And how many OP would it cost? I was almost certain it would be in the tens. After all, a potato launcher is a potato launcher—even in the Avengers' universe.
Third, leatherworking. I initially wanted to try clay, but quickly realized proper ceramic work required a kiln, and all I had was a two-burner mini stovetop. So I decided to hold off on clay and instead picked up a leatherworking starter kit: several thin pieces of vegetable-tanned leather, a sharp awl, a set of punches, a spool of waxed thread, and special needles. A utility knife and metal ruler were my go-to tools. My plan was to make a simple card-holder wallet using online guides—something practical and durable.
Before starting work, I indulged in a small ritual, a remnant of my past life. I brewed myself strong black coffee in John's old cezve, which I'd scrubbed until it sparkled. The aroma filled the tiny studio, momentarily overpowering the smell of cheap wallpaper and poverty. Sitting at the table, laden with tools and materials, I looked at this abundance and felt a sense of almost forgotten anticipation. This wasn't just the beginning of work. It was a statement.
In my old world, every new project began like this—with a cup of coffee and quiet planning. It was a time to mentally replay every step, from the first cut to the final polish. Now, in this alien body and alien apartment, this simple ritual became a bridge connecting my past self with my present one. It reminded me that, despite all the Marvel glitz, at my core I remained the same: a man who takes the chaos of materials and transforms it into order. And it doesn't matter what I create—a stool, a bulb launcher, or perhaps one day something capable of saving the world. The process remains sacred.
Taking another look at my makeshift workbench and mentally running through the next steps, I decided to keep things simple and start in order—with wood, something familiar and close to my heart. If this helped me earn the remaining fifty OP, I'd be ecstatic. Everything else would count toward farming for the next spin.
"So, what should I cut out so the System will clearly interpret it as a wooden figure? And at what stage will it recognize the work as complete?" I wondered aloud, picking up a small block of linden wood about the size of my fist.
As soon as my fingers touched the warm, smooth wood, I felt… relief. Deep, almost physical. The light, sweet scent of linden—its pliable, uniform texture—was painfully familiar. It was a piece of my old world, a tangible anchor in this ocean of madness. Not paper cranes or student lectures. The real deal.
I picked up the chisel, and its wooden handle fit my palm like a glove. I closed my eyes for a moment, and a vivid image flashed through my mind: sitting on the freshly planed porch of my house, the summer sun warming my back. A six-year-old neighbor boy, Lyoshka, squatted nearby, watching with mute admiration as a simple wooden horse emerged from a similar linden block beneath my hands. I remembered handing it to him—and how his face lit up with pure, sincere joy. A simple moment from a life I no longer had.
The pain of that thought was as sharp as the chisel's edge. I froze, staring at the wooden block. This wouldn't be just a figurine. It would be a ghost from the past—a materialized memory. And I wondered: what if the System measured more than complexity and materials? What if it also measured emotion? Intention? That horse wasn't just a craft; it was a gift, infused with warmth and joy. And what was I investing now? Cold calculation. I craved OP. I was a craftsman in a deal with the devil, and my work was currency. I doubted I could deceive a universal artifact—but I'd still try to infuse the figurine with that same quiet joy from creation. Just for myself.