A Glitch in Reality - Chapter 0002

Chapter 2

Jack finished scrubbing the last stretch of aisle 3 with slow, mechanical movements, the strong smell of synthetic pine detergent permeating his nostrils and making his eyes sting slightly. The old linoleum floor, marked by decades of footsteps, gleamed damp under the fluorescent lights buzzing from the ceiling. He wrung the mop forcefully in the cracked bucket, the dirty water swirling in gray eddies, and let out a long sigh, feeling his thin shoulders protest against the repetitive effort. His slender arms ached, the pale skin marked by visible veins under the faded red apron. He carried the heavy bucket in one hand and the mop in the other, walking through the back of the convenience store, the floor creaking under his worn-out All Stars, the sound echoing in the almost total silence of that morning. Upon reaching the stockroom, he carefully stored the materials, lining everything up perfectly—because, even in that misery, Jack refused to let chaos reign.

He had barely finished when Mr. Harlan’s hoarse, authoritative voice cut through the damp air of the warehouse.

” I’m glad you’re finished. A new shipment of soft drinks arrived this morning. I want it all on the front shelves before the truckers start showing up.”

Jack snorted softly, the air escaping through his teeth with a mixture of resignation and suppressed irritation. With a brief nod, he walked over to the warehouse, where the new crates were stacked against the cracked concrete wall. It was still early—the sun had barely fully risen in the San Diego sky—and there were few customers: just the occasional elderly man buying a newspaper and a lone trucker filling up his tank outside.

The first box was heavy, sealed with thick brown tape. At 6’3″ tall, Jack managed to lift it without much difficulty, feeling the weight press against his frail arms and protruding ribs. His muscles protested, but he ignored the familiar pain. He stacked three more boxes onto a creaking metal cart, its worn wheels squeaking on the uneven floor, and pushed everything to the front of the store. Sweat was already forming on his forehead, slowly trickling down the back of his neck as his apron clung to his back.

The soda shelves were practically empty—a desert of cold metal and dust accumulated in the corners. Jack positioned the cart, took out his pocketknife, and cut the tape off the first box with a precise movement. The smell of new cardboard and plastic permeated the air. He picked up the first can and stopped, frowning.

In the bright red and white packaging, the unmistakable face of Homelander stared out with that perfect, slightly unsettling smile. The hero wore a tight blue suit, his cape billowing dramatically in the colors of the American flag, in a pose that attempted to balance irreverence and grandeur—the nation’s savior selling cola-flavored soda. Jack blinked, holding the chilled can in his palm for a moment, slowly turning it between his fingers.

“I wasn’t expecting so much investment in marketing ,” he thought, analyzing the details with the critical eye of someone who devoured comics and series as a form of escapism. ” If Amazon wants to burn money on this series, that’s their problem.”

With a dismissive gesture, he placed the Homelander cans on the shelf, lining them up in neat rows. He opened the next box and, again, a small surprise struck him. A vibrant red can displayed the face of an actress he barely remembered seeing in the last season—delicate features, an athletic body clearly enhanced by post-production, a glint in her eyes that conveyed strength and vulnerability simultaneously in a way that seemed almost too calculated to be spontaneous. Obvious Photoshop , Jack reflected, but there was something almost hypnotic about the visual composition, an artistic care that contrasted with the narrative carelessness of the series.

He remained silent, the metallic clinking of cans filling the air as the shelves came back to life. One box revealed a dark green can with Deep posing dramatically, his diving helmet gleaming, his forced smile trying to convey heroism but only managing to convey embarrassment—Jack almost let out a dry laugh. Next, a matte black can, elegant and somber, with Black Noir in a mysterious pose, his imposing silhouette cutting through the darkness of the packaging with genuine elegance. Then, a more energetic version with the A-Train in blurred motion, the packaging tilted to convey speed and urgency. One box contained Lamplighter, the flaming hero he hadn’t expected to see in such a conventional campaign, with stylized flames dancing around the figure. And finally, a translucent and somewhat ironic can with the image of Translucent—the invisible hero who had died brutally in the first season.

Jack paused for a moment, holding the translucent can against the dim light of the store. The distorted reflection of his own gaunt face appeared in the polished metal. They’re even using the dead to sell soda. He shook his head, a mixture of disbelief and skeptical amusement coursing through his weary mind. The true fans won’t buy this after the disastrous ending they delivered. And the rest of the audience never buys with the same enthusiasm.

He shrugged and resumed his work. It wasn’t his money that was being wasted. He finished stocking the shelves, pushed the empty boxes back onto the cart, took everything to the back, and sorted the trash—crumpled cardboard, plastic, duct tape—throwing it all into the large recycling bin behind the gas station. The air outside was warmer now, the sun rising rapidly and heating the cracked concrete. The smell of diesel and the distant sea mingled with the light breeze, and Jack paused for a moment, wiping his hands on his apron as he contemplated the vast blue sky of San Diego. Scattered clouds drifted lazily, and in the distance, the outline of the city’s tall buildings rose like indifferent sentinels. His chest rose and fell with deep breaths, his thin body already exhausted despite only an hour having passed since the start of his shift.

Not even an hour has passed and I already want to leave , she thought, running her hand through her messy brown hair. It’s always like this. Tedious. Repetitive. A life that drags on like a mop on a dirty floor.

He took one last deep breath, feeling the hot asphalt radiate heat around him, and went back inside. The shift was just beginning.

Several hours had dragged on since that morning, time stretching like a frayed rope under the weight of a monotonous day. The afternoon sun was already low in the sky, filtering through the fogged windows and casting long shadows on the worn checkered linoleum. The air inside the gas station carried the same dense mixture as always: reheated coffee on the counter, diesel evaporating from the asphalt outside, the faint, sweet aroma of donuts in the scratched display case. The constant hum of the fluorescent lights on the ceiling mingled with the distant rumble of truck engines, creating a tedious symphony that Jack knew by heart, each note memorized involuntarily after months on the shift.

Mr. Harlan emerged from the back room, wearing a worn brown coat over his flannel shirt, a gray beret tilted over his thinning white hair, his ever-present cigarette—this time unlit, chewed between his yellowed teeth. He stopped before the counter, his tired but authoritative eyes fixed on the tall, slender young man.

” I’m leaving. I won’t be back until tomorrow morning. You stay at the register until Carlos arrives. Don’t leave before then. And no nonsense.”

Jack looked up, wiping the potato chip crumbs from his hands onto his worn jeans.

”Yes, sir. If any problems arise, I’ll call. And if someone tries to rob me, I’ll grab the baseball bat from under the counter and take care of it.”

Mr. Harlan let out a short, hoarse laugh, his gray mustache spreading with the rare smile that softened, for a moment, the deep wrinkles on his aged face.

“Good boy,” he said, giving a light pat to the polished wooden counter. “Take good care of the shop.”

The old man turned and walked out the front door, the metal bell jingling behind him. Jack watched him through the window as he walked to the old pickup truck parked beside the pumps; the engine coughed before starting with a deep rumble, the headlights flashed briefly, and the vehicle drove off, leaving a light cloud of dark smoke in the warm afternoon air. Silence returned, now deeper, more definitive.

A discreet smile curved Jack’s lips. Every time Mr. Harlan left, that window of forbidden freedom opened. The old man hated television being on during work hours—he said it distracted the employees and scared away the customers, and any sound of a program was cause for a scolding that would ripple out of the office like a hurricane. But now Jack wasted no time. He stood up from his chair, which creaked in protest, and walked to the small, old TV mounted on the wall behind the counter. He plugged it in with the worn remote, and the cathode ray tube took a few seconds to warm up, emitting the familiar hum of someone waking from a deep sleep.

For an hour, he sat behind the counter, his thin body sunk into the cracked vinyl swivel chair, a packet of artificial cheese potato chips between his long, pale fingers—one of those cheap ones he occasionally “borrowed” to stave off hunger. The plastic rustled as he opened the packet, the salty smell filling the air, each crunchy bite a small stolen pleasure against the emptiness of that endless afternoon. If I had a decent smartphone , he thought, his dark green eyes scanning the cracked ceiling, I could be reading a novel or rereading comics right now. Anything but that. The old foldable phone was in his pocket, useless for any entertainment beyond basic calls—a slight, constant, silently repressed envy, like so many other discomforts of life.

After a few minutes of utter boredom, he stood up, his joints creaking, and walked to the newsstand in the corner—a rusty metal structure crammed with yellowed publications. He picked up the latest edition of the San Diego Tribune , the rough paper smelling of fresh ink mixed with the slight mold of old stacks, returned to the counter, and opened the newspaper with a dry snap, the large pages unfolding before his tired eyes.

He flipped through the pages randomly, skipping used car ads and reports on port traffic, until a bold headline stopped him: “The Rise in Violence in San Diego: A City on the Brink of Chaos?” . Jack raised an eyebrow and leaned forward slightly. The article detailed, in an alarmist tone, how crime was increasing in the port and surrounding neighborhoods, citing statistics, statements from authorities, and accounts from frightened residents. He read with moderate attention, chewing on another snack, the salt sticking to his thin fingers—until a glaring error elicited a rare ironic smile from his chapped lips.

“In 2001, more than a thousand robberies were reported in San Diego ,” the paragraph read. Jack blinked, reread the sentence twice, and let out a low, almost inaudible laugh. 2001? It’s 2026, for God’s sake. Someone at the newspaper was going to get into serious trouble for this proofreading error. The mistake was so absurd it seemed intentional, like a continuity error in a poorly scripted series—and he, who devoured comics and television with a critical eye, couldn’t ignore that kind of slip-up anywhere.

The article delved into the central theme: the escalation of gang disputes in the city. Apparently, Mexican cartels were intensifying conflicts with the local mafia, vying for control of trafficking routes through San Diego’s busy port. Jack frowned, imagining the dark streets he crossed every day, now potentially more dangerous than he had considered. The text painted a grim picture: nighttime shootouts, executions in alleyways, a wave of fear spreading among the lower-class residents. The police were harshly criticized—slow patrol cars, scarce resources, a bureaucracy that paralyzed any effective action. And then, repeatedly, a mention appeared that intrigued him: the need to “hire external forces” to contain the problem.

External forces? Jack scratched his chin, his eyes scanning the printed lines. Outsourced—and he didn’t even know there was such a thing around here. He wasn’t the type to follow politics or national news; too poor, too busy surviving to care about TV debates or elections. His interests lay in fictional universes—flying heroes, complex villains, narratives that offered escapism from real brutality. Still, the mention of external agencies made his mind wander briefly to rumors he’d heard from regular clients, vague conversations about organizations operating in the city’s shadows. He dismissed the thought with a mental shrug. It wasn’t his problem. At least, not yet.

He flipped through the last pages, looking for something lighter, and found the Garfield comic strips at the end of the entertainment section. The lazy orange cat appeared in a classic sequence: complaining about Mondays, devouring lasagna, and sabotaging his owner. Jack let out a genuine, short, hoarse laugh that echoed in the empty cash register. The simple joke about laziness and food touched a sensitive point in his own exhausting reality. He folded the newspaper partially, leaving it on the counter, and let his mind wander while he finished his snacks.

His thoughts flowed like a slow, murky river. The Homelander poster he’d seen that morning, the themed tins on the shelves, mixed with old mementos of his family in Huntington. The smell of Mr. Harlan’s cigarettes, still lingering in the air, reminded him of his father. The ticking of the old clock on the wall marked the minutes with agonizing slowness, and outside a pickup truck honked as it drove away from the pump, the deep sound vibrating through the windows. The afternoon heat seeped in through the door, warming the pale skin beneath his flannel shirt. His deep eyes, marked by permanent dark circles, turned to the horizon visible through the glass—the distant harbor, the tall buildings, the blue sky that seemed to mock his routine. He was resilient, observant, a dreamer. But he was also tired. Very tired.

The afternoon’s tedium thickened like fog when the sound of heavy footsteps from the back broke the monotony. Jack looked up and, in an automatic impulse of guilt, turned off the TV—but it was just old Carlos, his colleague who worked the night shift, arriving earlier than expected. Carlos gave him a lazy nod, tossed his backpack into a corner, and went straight to the bathroom without saying a word. Jack relaxed his narrow shoulders and turned the TV back on, lowering the volume just enough to follow along without drawing attention.

Channel 7 was broadcasting what appeared, at first glance, to be a low-budget superhero movie. The shaky image, captured from a helicopter, showed stunning devastation in the streets of a city: buildings with cracked facades, abandoned and overturned cars, columns of smoke rising into the clear sky. Jack tilted his head, chewing the rest of his snacks as he settled into his chair. ” I haven’t seen that movie. It must be some cheap streaming trash.” It was comfortable enough to fill the boredom—visual and auditory noise better than oppressive silence.

Then the reporter’s voice cut through the air, deep and urgent, laden with a tension that didn’t sound like acting:

This is Channel 7 with a breaking live report from Albuquerque, New Mexico. The situation is rapidly deteriorating. An identified metahuman is causing absolute chaos in the city center. We repeat: there is an out-of-control superhuman individual on the loose. Watch the live footage…

The helicopter camera shook violently, capturing the destruction on a terrifying scale. In the middle of the main avenue, a middle-aged white man, his eyes gleaming with intense electric blue, raised his hands. Crackling bursts of energy shot from his palms, pulverizing abandoned cars as if they were made of paper. The asphalt melted into bubbling puddles, lampposts exploded in blue flames, and the air trembled with the roar of the explosions.

“The individual has already been identified as Fred Nelson,” the journalist continued, his voice choked with adrenaline he could no longer disguise. “He worked as an assistant at a local tire shop. He has a wife and a young son. His behavior is completely atypical, with no history of violence or known prior powers. This makes no sense… My God, look at the scale of this destruction…”

Suddenly, the tone changed. The voice, once professional, now carried a visceral and raw terror. The reporter choked, and the microphone picked up his gasping breath.

” He… he’s looking at us. Directly at the helicopter. Oh, no…”

The camera panned sharply, focusing on the metahuman below. Fred Nelson lifted his face, his blue eyes gleaming like arc lamps. A disturbing smile distorted his features before he extended his hand. A massive electrical charge built up, illuminating the air with a blinding glow, and an incandescent bolt cut through the sky like a lightning strike of concentrated fury. The impact struck the helicopter with a deafening bang. The image shook violently, spiraling as alarms blared. Muffled screams from the pilot and reporter filled the audio. Then the transmission was abruptly cut off, the screen flickering before returning to the studio.

At the presenters’ counter, a middle-aged woman with impeccable makeup but wide eyes tried to maintain her composure, her voice choked with emotion that was clearly not a performance:

” We lost contact with our team in the air. We just lost contact with the helicopter. This is… this is extremely serious, folks. The situation in Albuquerque is getting ugly, very ugly. Our thoughts are with the journalists who risked everything to bring us these images. We will return with more updates as soon as we have them.”

Jack stood motionless, the remote control still in his hand, his eyes fixed on the screen now occupied by a map of Albuquerque with destruction zones marked in red. The gravity in the journalists’ voices, the real panic that had seeped through their professional composure, the way the helicopter was shot down live without a camera cut—it all didn’t sound like acting. It didn’t sound like low-budget fiction. This was real , he thought, and the awareness settled heavily on his thin chest, like a stone slowly sinking into deep water.

The shrill ring of the front door bell jolted him from his torpor. Jack switched off the TV in a reflexive movement, straightened up in his chair, and adopted a neutral expression as an elderly gentleman entered the store—beret, woolen vest, khaki trousers, worn shoes, the slightly stooped posture of old age. One of Mr. Harlan’s regular friends, the kind who would spend half an hour choosing newspapers and commenting on the weather. Jack recognized him immediately and relaxed. The old man murmured a friendly greeting and headed for the cigarette aisle.

With a quick glance at the door, Jack turned the TV back on, turning the volume down to the lowest setting. But this time it wasn’t for entertainment. It was to follow along. To understand what he had just witnessed with his own eyes. The presenter had resumed the coverage, now with a more controlled tone, but equally tense, and maps, experts, and satellite images filled the screen in an attempt to make sense of the chaos in Albuquerque.

Jack chewed the last crumb of his snack, his eyes fixed on the screen, his heart racing with a mixture of curiosity, fear, and a spark of excitement that he couldn’t explain or extinguish.

The shift was still far from over.