It began, as all grand moments of personal liberation tend to begin, with a minor inconvenience.
A nose itch.
Not the dramatic kind, either no thunder, no lightning, no celestial alignment. Just a tiny, persistent tickle at the very tip of my nose, the sort of nuisance perfectly engineered by the universe to mock my continued lack of basic bodily autonomy. I tried to ignore it. I failed. The more I ignored it, the worse it became.
If this was destiny, destiny was a sadist with a feather.
[Ready?] the system asked, its tone halfway between encouragement and exasperation.
No, I answered, because honesty seemed like the least I could offer myself. But I'd like to be done with this.
[That's the spirit.] There was a flicker of something like warmth in its presence a gentle pulse, as if the system were rolling up its metaphorical sleeves.
