"My what?"
He produced a laminated chart from his briefcase. "Your Bureau-approved daily schedule. Designed to minimize emotional volatility and prophetic energy fluctuations."
I stared at the color-codedmonstrosityhe handed me. Every minute of my day was accounted for, broken down into precise increments.
"Seven-fifteen to seven-twenty-two: morning hygiene routine?" I read incredulously. "Eight-forty-five to nine-oh-three: breakfast consumption and digestion period?" I flippedthe chart over. "What the hell is 'designated emotional volatility time'?"
Fenric consulted his tablet. "Fourteen-point-five minutes allotted daily for emotional outbursts. Research indicates humans require a periodic release of emotional tension."
I blinked at him, certain I'd misheard. "You'vescheduledwhen I'm allowed to have feelings?"
"Not feelings in general. Just the volatile ones." He adjusted his glasses. "Anger, frustration, excessive joy, anything that might trigger your reality manipulation abilities."
A pressure built behind my eyes, definitely not scheduled emotional volatility. I glanced around the room, spotted a book on the coffee table, and grabbed it.
"Emotional volatility this, asshat!" I hurled the book directly at his perfect head.
Fenric ducked with surprising grace, the book sailed over him and thudded against the wall. "That outburst will be noted in your file," his voice remained calm, making another entry in his tablet. "And you've now used 3.7 minutes of your allotted emotional volatility time for today."
I growled in frustration, my glowing palm pulsing brighter. "I need a snack before I turn you into something with more personality. Like a houseplant. Or a dust bunny."
Stomping into the kitchenette, I spotted a vending machine tucked into the corner. Not a normal vending machine, but one with a strange, iridescent sheen and symbols etched around its edges.
"What's with the magical snack dispenser?" I approached it cautiously.
"Standard issue," Fenric replied, following me at a safe distance. "It materializes nutritionally appropriate food items based on your biological needs."
My stomach rumbled. I hadn't eaten since that piece of toast this morning, and stress always made me hungry. I reached for my wallet, then paused. "Does it take money?"
"Simply place your palm on the scanner," Fenric instructed. "Non-glowing palm, please," he added hastily.
I pressed my right hand against the scanner, and the machine hummed to life, its display flashing:ANALYZING NUTRITIONAL REQUIREMENTS.
"I just want some crackers," I muttered. "Saltines, preferably."
The machine beeped, and the display changed:SELECTION REJECTED. NUTRITIONAL PROFILE INDICATES DEFICIENCY IN PROTEIN, VITAMINS B12, D, AND IRON. RECOMMENDED ALTERNATIVE: KALE-QUINOA POWER BAR.
"I don't want a kale-anything," I jabbed at the buttons. "Give me the saltines."
The machine made an ominous grinding noise. The display flickered, then displayed:ERROR 404: CUSTOMER SATISFACTION NOT FOUND.
"What the flying fuck." I smacked the side of the machine with my glowing palm.
That was a mistake.
Totally my bad.
Blue energy surged from my hand into the vending machine, which shuddered violently. Its display cycled through a rainbow of colors before settling on an ominous crimson glow. Then it started to laugh, a mechanical, hiccuping sound that made the hair on my arms stand up.
"PROTOCOL OVERRIDE," it announced in a voice that sounded like a blender full of marbles. "DISPENSING ALL ITEMS."
"Ms. Winter, step back immediately!" Fenric shouted, but it was too late.
The vending machine began spitting out snacks at alarming speeds. First came normal-looking packages, chips, candy bars, and granola bars, but they were followed by increasingly bizarre items.
A bag of chips that whispered when I walked past it. "The end times are coming. Would you like some dip?"
A soda can that floated instead of falling, bobbing against the ceiling. Granola bars wrapped in what appeared to be cursed paper, glowing with hieroglyphics that rearranged themselves when I looked directly at them.
