Chris stood in the muddy basin of the crater, a man with a mission. The cold, wet mud had thoroughly soaked the knees of his pajama pants, but he barely noticed. His focus had narrowed to the matte-black junction box that lay before him like a cryptic altar. This was it. This was the source of the problem. He knew it with a certainty that transcended logic and settled deep in his gut, a place usually reserved for identifying the weak points on raid bosses.
He turned, looking up at his audience on the crater's edge. Pete stood with his arms crossed, a thunderous expression on his face. Misty stood a few feet behind him, her expression a familiar, worried cocktail of concern for her son and deference to her husband.
"The whole outage is probably coming from this junction," Chris announced, his voice echoing slightly in the earthen pit. He pointed a muddy finger at the box. "The lightning must have hit the tree, and when it came up, it snapped the main line. If I can just get inside this box and bypass the snap, I might be able to reroute the signal."
The words felt right coming out of his mouth. They sounded technical, competent. Reroute the signal. You find the broken conduit, you reroute the power flow. Simple.
Pete let out a short, sharp, incredulous laugh. It wasn't a sound of amusement; it was a sound of pure, unfiltered derision. It was a sound Chris had heard many, many times before.
"Reroute the signal?" Pete scoffed, taking a step closer to the edge. "Chris, you don't know the first thing about rerouting a signal. You think playing video games all day makes you a network engineer? That's not how the world works. For all you know, that's a high-voltage line. You'll fry yourself into a little grease spot before you even know what happened."
Misty added her voice, softer and more gentle, but no less dismissive. "Pete's right. It looks dangerous. Maybe we should just go back inside and wait for the power company. They'll know what to do."
A familiar flash of frustration, hot and acidic, burned in Chris's chest. They didn't get it. They never did. They saw him as a child playing with things he didn't understand. But in his mind, he did understand. He understood systems. He understood logic flows. The real world, with its messy, unpredictable rules, was what he didn't understand. A system like this, a box with an input and an output, was something he could grasp. Pete's condescending "logic" was based on a world of instruction manuals and warning labels. Chris's logic was based on something more intuitive, more fundamental. If a problem is presented, a solution must exist.
"It's not high voltage," Chris said, his voice tight with annoyance. "High-voltage lines are buried in thick concrete conduits, and they have warning markers all over them. This is a data line. I can feel it."
Pete's face contorted into a mask of pure exasperation. "You can feel it? What are you, some kind of data-whisperer now? It's a thick, black, unknown cable that was buried six feet underground. The default assumption is 'danger,' not 'let's poke it with a stick.' Get out of the hole, Chris."
The command, blunt and final, hung in the cool morning air. It was an order, not a suggestion. But for the first time in a long time, the familiar urge to retreat, to comply and disappear back into his room, was overridden by a stronger, more powerful drive. He had a quest. And quest-givers, especially condescending ones like Pete, were just obstacles to be overcome.
Without another word, he turned his back on them. He put his head down and started climbing out of the other side of the crater, his sneakers slipping in the mud. He ignored Pete's sputtered, "Where do you think you're going? I said get out of the hole and come back to the house!"
He didn't just get out of the hole. He stomped away from it, his muddy pajama pants flapping around his ankles, and marched with grim determination toward the garage. He needed a tool.
The garage was Pete's world. It was his sanctuary, his kingdom of sawdust and organization. The moment Chris heaved the heavy side door open, the smell hit him: a potent, masculine potpourri of motor oil, freshly cut lumber, grass clippings, and the sharp, chemical tang of fertilizer. It was the smell of chores.
Inside, the space was cluttered but meticulously organized. A massive pegboard wall held the silver outlines of dozens of tools, a testament to Pete's system. Every hammer, every wrench, had its designated place. Most of the spots were filled, but a few stark white outlines showed where tools were currently in use, a silent accusation against disorder.
In one corner, neatly sectioned off, was Misty's domain: stacks of terracotta pots, bags of potting soil, and a collection of brightly colored gardening gloves and trowels. But the rest of the garage was pure Pete. A red metal workbench stood against the far wall, a heavy vise bolted to one corner. Shelves were laden with neatly labeled jars of screws, nails, and bolts. A lawnmower sat next to a gleaming red leaf blower.
Chris's eyes scanned the space, bypassing the complex power tools and the rolling multi-drawer socket set cabinets. His brain wasn't looking for the right tool for the job. He wouldn't know what that was. A network technician might have a specific kit with wire strippers and continuity testers. Pete would probably grab a specific type of torque wrench. Chris's brain, conditioned by thousands of hours of gameplay, was looking for a functional equivalent. It was looking for a starter weapon. It was looking for a crowbar.
He spotted a heavy, red metal toolbox on a low shelf under the workbench. It was Pete's primary kit, the one he grabbed for most household jobs. Chris knelt and flipped the two latches, the metal making a loud clank in the quiet garage. He lifted the heavy lid. A tray filled with screwdrivers and pliers rested on top.
This was more like it. He ignored the Phillips heads, the Allen keys, the weird, star-shaped bits. He was looking for something primal, something that screamed "apply leverage here." His fingers found it almost immediately. It was a flathead screwdriver, but it was a monster. The shaft was nearly a foot long and as thick as his thumb. The handle was made of chipped, faded red wood, worn smooth from years of Pete's sweaty grip. It felt heavy and substantial in his hand. A perfect tool for prying.
Next, he rummaged for something to grip and twist with. His eyes fell on a hefty pair of pliers. They were heavy, black, and vaguely threatening, like something you'd use for interrogation. He didn't know what their intended purpose was, but he could imagine using them to rip and tear at stubborn components. Pry and rip. A solid, two-pronged strategy.
He stood up, holding his chosen tools. The rusty screwdriver in one hand, the heavy pliers in the other. They felt good. Simple. Intuitive. They were the perfect instruments for applying brute force to a stubborn, uncooperative obstacle. He gave a single, satisfied nod, turned, and marched back out into the morning light, leaving the garage door wide open behind him.
He arrived back at the crater to find Pete still standing there, arms crossed, his expression having shifted from annoyance to a kind of weary resignation. It was the look of a man who knew he was about to witness something stupid but was powerless to stop it. Misty had retreated to the porch, watching with anxious eyes.
Chris slid back down into the muddy pit, his confidence renewed. He wasn't just a guy in muddy pajamas.; he was a gamer equipped for the challenge. He knelt once more before the junction box, his new tools laid out beside him on a relatively dry patch of dirt.
He ran his hand over the box's surface again. Up close, it was even more unnerving. The seamlessness was perfect. There were no screws, no bolts, no recessed hex nuts, nothing. There were no visible hinges or clasps. There wasn't a single brand name, logo, or warning label etched into its surface. It was a solid, featureless, matte-black shape.
A practical person, a person like Pete, would see an impenetrable, factory-sealed unit. They would see something that was not meant to be opened by the end-user. They would see a dead end.
Chris saw a puzzle box.
This was a classic environmental challenge. His mind, slipping effortlessly into its well-worn gamer grooves, began to cycle through the possibilities. He was thinking about about electronics and wiring. Is there a specific sequence of taps to unlock it? Maybe. The thought was tantalizing. He filed it away for later.
He looked at the box again. There was a faint line, a hairline seam, that ran around the edge of the top face, suggesting it was a lid or a faceplate. That was the only potential point of entry. It was a clear sign to him: "Interact Here."
His frustration with Pete, his urge to get back online, and his sense of purpose all coalesced into a single, overriding impulse. He decided on the most direct solution. Brute force. It was time to use his new "crowbar."
He picked up the big, rusty screwdriver. He positioned the flat tip into the faint seam running along the box's edge. He took a deep breath, gripped the chipped red handle with both hands, and put every ounce of his wiry strength into the attempt.
He leaned into it, his arms shaking, his face turning a blotchy red with strain. The muscles in his back screamed in protest. The screwdriver's hardened steel tip ground against the strange, matte-black material of the box.
A horrible, high-pitched screeching sound filled the air, a sound that set Chris's teeth on edge. It was the sound of metal failing to defeat a superior material. The tip wasn't digging in. It wasn't gaining any purchase. It was just scraping uselessly against the seamless surface.
Suddenly, with a final, violent shriek, the screwdriver tip slipped from the seam.
The sudden release of tension sent Chris lurching forward. The metal shaft of the screwdriver flew past his right cheek, missing his eye by inches. He flinched back with a startled yelp, his heart hammering against his ribs. He scrambled backward, landing with a wet squelch on his backside in the mud. He stared at the box, his chest heaving. A long, ugly silver scratch now marred the perfect black surface.
From the edge of the crater, Pete's dry, sarcastic voice drifted down, each word a perfectly aimed dart of shame. "See? Professional at work. You need a hand getting to the emergency room when you put that thing through your face?"
Humiliation and frustration warred within Chris, a hot, churning mess in his gut. His face burned, and it wasn't from the exertion. He wanted to scream at Pete, to tell him he was an asshole. But he didn't feel like an argument. His first, most direct approach had failed spectacularly and almost resulted in him needing stitches. Giving up, however, was not an option. Retreating now, defeated and muddy, would be a victory for Pete. It would be an admission that he was just foolish and messing with things he shouldn't. That was a something he refused to accept.
He took a slow, deep breath, forcing the hot flush of shame down. He needed a new strategy. Brute force had failed. It was time for something a little more subtle.
He set aside the heavy pliers; he wouldn't need them. He picked up the big screwdriver again, but this time, he held it differently. He gripped it by the metal shaft and turned it around, using the heavy wooden handle as a makeshift mallet. He leaned in close to the box, his ear only a few inches from the surface, and began to tap gently along the seam. It was a classic trope, a technique he'd seen in a hundred old movies. He was listening for a difference. He was listening for the weak point.
Tink. Tink. Tink.
Most of the sounds were dull and solid, a dead thud that spoke of a solid, uniform construction. The sound of his tapping was absorbed completely by the strange material. He moved slowly along the edge, his frustration giving way to a state of intense, focused concentration.
Tink. Tink. Thunk.
He stopped. He tapped the spot again.
Thunk.
There it was. It was a subtle difference, but it was undeniable. While the other spots produced a dead, solid sound, this one spot, right near the corner of the faceplate, produced a slightly different noise. It was a soft, resonant thunk, almost hollow, as if the space directly behind that part of the seam was empty.
An instinct, an intuition honed by years of finding secret doors behind loose bricks and shooting the glowing weak points on video game bosses, flared to life in his mind. This was it. This was the spot.
His heart began to beat faster, this time with excitement, not fear. He flipped the screwdriver around again, the metal tip gleaming in the morning light. He carefully, precisely, wedged the tip back into the seam at that exact point. He took a breath, held it, and pushed. Not with his full, grunting weight this time, but with a steady, focused pressure.
This time, there was no horrible grinding resistance. This time, there was a soft, deeply satisfying CLICK.
The sound was quiet, almost delicate, but to Chris, it was as loud and triumphant as a peal of trumpets. A hairline crack of darkness appeared around the entire edge of the faceplate. The seal was broken.
A wild grin spread across his face. He glanced up at Pete. His step-father's mouth was hanging slightly open, his skeptical expression replaced by one of grudging disbelief.
With a final, triumphant grunt of effort, Chris levered the faceplate open. The plate groaned in protest, the sound of a vacuum seal being broken. It lifted up, heavy and solid, revealing the contents of the box.
But it wasn't what he expected. It wasn't the expected tangle of multi-colored wires, circuit boards, and capacitors. It was something else entirely.
The inside of the box was empty, save for a single, unbroken sheet of pure, dark, polished glass that covered the entire bottom surface. It was black and reflective.