Chapter 4: The Cover Story
The Craigslist refresh button had become my morning ritual.
Eight days since waking up in someone else's body. Eight days of testing powers, mapping limits, preparing for a moment that hadn't arrived yet. My laptop sat open on the kitchen counter while I practiced knife skills copied from a YouTube cooking channel—the motions smooth but still lacking the efficiency that came from muscle memory properly integrated.
[Technique Observed: Basic Knife Skills (Julienne)]
[Fidelity: 71% — Refinement recommended]
The onion I was slicing looked passable. Not chef-quality, but functional. Good enough for someone claiming "diverse freelance experience" on a resume that was mostly creative fiction.
I hit refresh again. Still nothing from apartment 4D.
The temp agency appointment was in two hours. I wiped down the cutting board, showered, and dressed in the best clothes the original Chase Reed had owned—which meant a button-down shirt that fit reasonably well and slacks that didn't have visible stains. Not impressive, but acceptable.
Los Angeles traffic turned a fifteen-minute drive into forty. I used the time to review my cover story, running through potential questions and practiced answers.
Where did you work before?
Freelance. Data entry, administrative support, some marketing assistance. Nothing permanent because I was focused on building skills across multiple fields. Versatile. Adaptable. The kind of answer that meant nothing and explained everything.
Why are you looking for temp work?
Between situations. Exploring options. Maintaining income while searching for the right fit. Translation: I have no plan and I'm making this up as I go, but that describes half of LA so it won't stand out.
References?
The original Chase Reed's employer would confirm he'd been adequate. Beyond that, I had nothing. But temp agencies weren't known for deep background checks, and my Power of Luck could probably nudge the odds if needed.
Probably. The luck manipulation still felt unreliable—less a tool and more a vague suggestion that reality might cooperate if I asked nicely.
The agency office sat in a strip mall in Culver City, sandwiched between a nail salon and a check-cashing place. The representative who processed my paperwork was a woman in her forties with tired eyes and a smile that said she'd seen a hundred people like me this week alone.
"Diverse freelance experience," she read from my resume. "Self-taught across multiple fields. Between permanent positions." Her tone held no judgment—just recognition. "LA story. We get a lot of those."
"I'm good at learning quickly," I said. "Whatever you need."
She typed something into her computer. "Data entry, office support, light customer service. We've got a few placements that might work. Nothing glamorous."
"Glamorous isn't the goal."
That earned a genuine half-smile. "Refreshing. Most people who walk in here think they're three months from being discovered." She handed me a packet of forms. "Fill these out. We'll call when something matches."
I spent an hour completing paperwork that asked about skills I was still acquiring and experience I was actively fabricating. The Photographic Reflex helped with the parts requiring examples of competency—I could describe techniques I'd copied even if I hadn't mastered them. The Memory Palace organized my lies so they stayed consistent.
By the time I left, I had registration confirmation and a promise of potential placement within two weeks. Income secured, or at least theoretically accessible. One fewer variable to worry about.
---
[Koreatown — Day 8, 2:17 PM]
The skill acquisition phase required deliberate observation targets. I'd learned from the gym disaster—no more trying to absorb multiple complex techniques simultaneously. Single focus. Complete encoding. Practice until the copied form became integrated competence.
First target: confident body language.
I found a bar in Silver Lake that catered to the entertainment-adjacent crowd. Managers, assistants, people who worked near enough to power to smell it without touching it. The confident ones moved differently—spine straight, eye contact steady, gestures economical and deliberate.
I ordered a drink I didn't want and watched.
A man at the end of the bar was telling a story to two women who seemed genuinely interested. His hands moved with purpose, never fidgeting. His posture projected ease without arrogance. When someone interrupted, he paused, acknowledged them, and returned to his point without losing the thread.
[Technique Observed: Confident Presence (Social)]
[Encoding: Complete]
[Fidelity: 67% — Significant practice recommended]
I left the bar and walked three blocks, testing the encoded posture. My spine wanted to curve. My shoulders wanted to hunch. The copied form was there, but my body resisted it—years of the original Chase Reed's habits fighting against new patterns.
By the end of the hour, I could maintain the posture for maybe five minutes before slipping. Good enough for a first impression. Not sustainable for extended interaction.
Second target: conversational deflection.
The same bar, different evening. I observed a woman gracefully redirecting personal questions—turning "where are you from?" into "what brings you here tonight?" without appearing evasive. The technique was subtle: acknowledge, pivot, redirect focus.
[Technique Observed: Conversational Deflection (Basic)]
[Fidelity: 72%]
I practiced on the bartender, who didn't seem to notice I was testing anything. Asked about his background, he started talking about mine—I deflected twice before he realized he'd shared more than I had. The technique worked. Another tool in the kit.
Third target: basic cooking.
The apartment's kitchen was small but functional. I watched cooking videos with focused attention, copying techniques one at a time. Pasta came first—boiling, salting, timing. Then basic sauce from canned tomatoes, garlic, and olive oil. Nothing impressive, but the kind of foundational competency that said "I can take care of myself" without screaming "I have something to prove."
The first solo meal happened on day eight. Spaghetti with marinara, eaten alone at the kitchen counter while outside the window Los Angeles hummed its indifferent song.
The pasta was slightly overcooked. The sauce needed more salt. I ate every bite anyway, savoring the proof that I could do this—not just survive in this body, but live in it. Build something. Become someone.
Human moment: a small pleasure in ordinary accomplishment.
---
[Day 9 — 11:47 PM]
The Craigslist alert pinged.
I was half-asleep, laptop open beside me on the bed, having refreshed the housing page so many times the motion had become automatic. The notification sound cut through the drowsy haze.
New listing: Roommate wanted. Loft 4D. No weirdos.
My finger hovered over the trackpad. Ten minutes old. The loft—the actual loft, apartment 4D, the place I'd watched on a screen in another life—was looking for roommates.
I could feel something shifting beneath the surface of probability. Not dramatic—just a subtle alignment, like tumblers clicking into place. The luck I'd been focusing on for days, the singular intention of being in the right place at the right time, had delivered exactly what I'd asked for.
Or maybe it was coincidence. The original ad had been posted around this time in canon, and I was simply monitoring at the right moment.
The distinction didn't matter. What mattered was the opportunity sitting in front of me.
I read the listing three times. The details matched what I remembered from the show—Nick Miller's grumpy prose style evident in the curt description, Schmidt's influence visible in the mention of "modern amenities and ample closet space." They were looking for someone quiet, responsible, and employed. They were not looking for weirdos.
I was a transmigrator from another dimension with a supernatural optimization system living in a dead man's body.
Weirdo status: pending evaluation.
I composed the response carefully. Professional but not stiff. Friendly but not eager. The kind of email that said "I'm a normal person with no complications" while being written by someone who was definitionally the most complicated person in any room he entered.
Hi—
Saw your ad. I'm Chase, 27, work in data entry (remote), looking for a place with good people after my last living situation didn't work out. Quiet, employed, zero drama. I can meet whenever works for you.
Simple. Forgettable. Exactly what they needed to see.
I read it over twice, checking for anything that might trigger Nick's bullshit detector or Schmidt's tendency to dismiss anyone who seemed beneath his social standards.
Then I clicked send.
The email disappeared into the digital ether, traveling toward a loft in the Arts District where three men and a dying ecosystem were about to get very disrupted.
I closed the laptop and stared at the dark apartment.
Everything I'd done for the past nine days had been preparation for what came next. Learning the powers. Mapping the limits. Building a cover story that could survive scrutiny. Now the preparation phase was over, and the execution phase was about to begin.
The characters I'd watched for comfort in another life were about to become real people I'd have to navigate in real time. No rewind. No pause. No safety of a screen between me and their reactions.
The email confirmation sat in my sent folder. One message. One response. One decision that couldn't be undone.
The apartment that would change everything was waiting for an answer.
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