A Glitch in Reality - Chapter 002

Jack finished mopping the last stretch of corridor 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, now glistened damply under the fluorescent lights buzzing from the ceiling. He wrung the mop forcefully in the cracked bucket, the dirty water swirling in grey eddies, and let out a long sigh, feeling his thin shoulders protest the repetitive effort. His slender arms ached, the pale skin marked by visible veins beneath 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 creaked under his worn-out Converse sneakers, echoing in the almost empty morning silence of the gas station. The air was thick with the familiar smell of fuel, burnt coffee, and stale donuts from the display case. Reaching the stockroom, he carefully stored the materials, lining everything up perfectly in its place—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:

— Good that you’re finished. A new shipment of soft drinks arrived earlier today. I want you to replace everything on the front shelves before the truck drivers start arriving.

Jack snorted softly, the air escaping through his teeth with a mixture of resignation and restrained irritation. Of course. Because cleaning the floor wasn’t enough. But there was no arguing about it. That was his job. With a short nod, he headed to the stockroom where the new boxes were stacked against the cracked concrete wall. It was still early—the sun had barely risen completely in the San Diego sky—and the number of customers was small: just the occasional elderly person buying a newspaper and a lone trucker filling up his tank outside.

The first box was heavy, sealed with thick brown tape. Jack, at 6’3″, 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 squealing against the uneven floor, and pushed everything toward 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 filled the air. He lifted the first can and stopped, frowning in genuine confusion.

In the bright red and white packaging, Homelander’s unmistakable face stared back with that perfect, unsettling smile. The hero wore his tight blue suit, his cape billowing dramatically in the colors of the American flag, posing in an irreverent yet heroic image—like the nation’s savior selling soda. Cola flavor . Jack blinked, holding the cold can in the palm of his hand.

“I didn’t expect a series to invest so much in marketing ,” he thought, slowly turning the can over. ” I imagined a movie or something bigger… but whatever. If Amazon wants to burn money on this failed series, that’s their problem.”

He placed the Homelander cans on the shelf with a shrug, lining them up perfectly in neat rows. The cold plastic contrasted with his hot, calloused fingers from work. He opened the next box and, again, a subtle surprise struck him. A vibrant red can displayed the face of an actress he didn’t remember appearing so much in the last season. She looked younger, with soft features and an athletic body that the camera had certainly enhanced. Photoshop, obviously , Jack reflected, analyzing the details with the critical eye of someone who consumed series and comics as an escape. Still, there was something almost hypnotic about the image—a glint in her eyes, a confident posture that conveyed strength and vulnerability at the same time.

He continued his work in silence, the metallic clinking of the cans filling the air as the shelves came alive again. Another box revealed a dark green can with The Deep posing dramatically, his underwater helmet gleaming and a forced smile attempting to convey heroism. Jack almost let out a dry laugh. That one…

Next came a matte black can, sleek and somber, featuring Black Noir in a mysterious pose, his imposing silhouette cutting through the darkness of the packaging. Then, a more energetic version with A-Train, the speedster in blurred motion, conveying speed and urgency. Jack lifted one can after another, arranging everything with obsessive precision. One box contained Lamplighter, the flaming hero he hadn’t expected to see in such a mainstream campaign—stylized flames dancing around his figure. And finally, a translucent and 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 metal. Are they really using even the dead to sell soda? He shook his head, a mixture of disbelief and skeptical amusement coursing through his weary mind. Amazon marketing. For them, it’s just money thrown away. The real fans won’t buy this after the disastrous ending they delivered. And the rest of the public… well, they never buy merchandise like real fans do.

He shrugged again, the slight gesture contrasting with the emotional weight he carried daily. It wasn’t his money being wasted. It wasn’t his series failing. Jack finished filling the shelves, pushing the empty boxes back onto the cart. The metal creaked under the weight, echoing in the empty aisle. He took everything to the back, separated the trash—crumpled cardboard, plastics, and tape—and threw it in the large recycling bin behind the gas station. The air outside was warmer now, the sun rising quickly and heating the cracked concrete. The smell of diesel and distant sea mingled with the light breeze.

Jack paused for a moment, wiping his hands on his apron as he gazed at 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 exhausted despite barely an hour having passed since the start of his shift. Fatigue accumulated like lead in his bones: twelve hours ahead, aching feet, his mind wandering between survival and distant dreams.

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

Jack took one last deep breath, the warm smell of asphalt rising around him, and went back inside. The shift was only just beginning.

….

Several hours dragged on since Jack had finished restocking the soda shelves, time stretching like a frayed rope under the weight of a monotonous day. The San Diego afternoon sun was already lower in the sky, filtering through the fogged windows of the convenience store and casting long shadows on the worn checkered linoleum. The air inside the gas station carried a heavy mixture of smells: reheated coffee on the counter, diesel that seeped in through the automatic doors every time a vehicle stopped, and the faint, sweet aroma of the donuts displayed in the scratched glass window. 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.

Mr. Harlan, with his gray mustache and the ever-present cigarette between his yellowed fingers, appeared in the doorway of the back room, wiping his hands on a dirty cloth.

“Carlos’ shift is over and he’s already left. You’re at the cash register now, kid. It’s quiet today, but you never know.”

Jack nodded listlessly, feeling the familiar weight of resignation pressing down on his narrow shoulders. He took off his dusty apron and hung it on the hook, walking to the reception desk with dragging steps. His old All Stars creaked softly against the floor. The cash register was a simple station: a time-worn wooden counter, an old cash register that still used paper tapes, and a cracked vinyl swivel chair that creaked with every movement.

He sat down, his thin body sinking slightly into the worn seat, and let out a long sigh. It was Wednesday afternoon—a slow day, without the weekend rush or the morning peak of truckers. Only the occasional elderly customer or local worker stopped to pay for fuel or buy a pack of cigarettes.

Completely bored, Jack reached under the counter and grabbed a small bag of chips from a hidden shelf—one of those cheap, artificially cheese-flavored ones he occasionally “borrowed” to stave off hunger. The plastic rustled between his long fingers as he opened the bag, the salty smell filling the air.

He chewed slowly, the crunchy sound echoing in the silence of the nearly empty shop, each bite a small distraction against the afternoon’s emptiness. If only I had one of those modern smartphones , he thought, his deep green eyes scanning the cracked ceiling. I could be browsing the internet right now, reading a novel or rereading comic book threads. Anything but that. His old flip phone rested in his pocket, useless for any entertainment beyond basic calls. A subtle envy for those who could afford colorful screens and endless scrolling feeds was a constant feeling, but he pushed it down, as he did with so many other discomforts in life.

After a few minutes of utter boredom, Jack rose from his chair, his joints creaking softly. He walked to the corner of the store where the newspaper and magazine rack was located, a rusty metal structure full of yellowed publications. He picked up the latest issue of the San Diego Tribune , the paper rough and smelling of fresh ink mixed with the subtle mold of old stacks. He returned to the cash register, sat down again, 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 an inside page caught his eye. The bold headline screamed: “The Rise of Violence in San Diego: A City on the Brink of Chaos?”. Jack raised an eyebrow, leaning forward slightly in his creaky chair. The article detailed, in an alarmist tone, how crime was increasing in the port and outlying neighborhoods. He read with moderate attention, chewing another snack, the salt sticking to his thin fingers.

Conveniently, the text mentioned old statistics, and that’s when a glaring error brought a rare, ironic smile to Jack’s chapped lips. “In 2001, more than a thousand robberies were recorded throughout San Diego,” the paragraph read. He blinked, reread the line twice, and let out a low, almost inaudible laugh. 2001? It’s 2026, for crying out loud. Someone at the newspaper was going to get in serious trouble for this proofreading error. The continuity mistake was so absurd it almost seemed intentional, like a plot hole in a bad TV series. He shook his head, inwardly amused by the irony—he, who devoured comics and TV series with a critical eye, couldn’t ignore these slips.

Continuing to read, the article delved deeper into the main theme: the rise of gang wars in the city. Apparently, the Mexican cartels—described as “headquarters” in the text, probably a typo or a hasty translation—had been intensifying conflicts with the local mafia, vying for drug routes through the busy port of San Diego. Jack frowned, imagining the dark streets he himself crossed every day, now potentially more dangerous.

The text painted a grim picture: nighttime shootings, executions in alleyways, and a wave of fear spreading among the lower-class residents. The police were harshly criticized for their incompetence—slow patrol cars, scarce resources, and a bureaucracy that paralyzed any effective action. The article repeatedly mentioned the need to “hire outside forces” to contain the problem, something that left Jack slightly intrigued.

Outside forces? He scratched his chin, his eyes scanning the printed lines. Outsourced, and I didn’t even know there was a paramilitary force around here. Jack 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 outside agencies made his mind wander briefly to rumors he heard from clients: organizations like the GDA or something bigger, but he dismissed the thought with a mental shrug. It wasn’t his problem. At least, not yet.

He flipped through the pages, searching 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 hit too close to his own exhausting reality. He folded the newspaper partially, leaving it on the counter, and allowed his mind to wander while he chewed the rest of his snacks.

His thoughts flowed like a slow, murky river. Images of the Homelander poster he’d seen that morning, of the themed tins on the shelves, mingled with old memories of his toxic family in Huntington. The smell of Mr. Harlan’s cigarettes that still lingered in the air reminded him of his alcoholic father.

The ticking of the old clock on the wall marked the minutes with agonizing slowness. Outside, a truck honked as it drove away from the gas pump, the deep sound vibrating through the windows. Jack felt the afternoon heat seeping in through the door, warming his pale skin beneath the flannel. His deep-set 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 grounded routine.

He was resilient, observant, a dreamer. But also tired. Very tired. The newspaper lay beside him, a printed reminder that the real world was as chaotic as any story he read.

The day still had many hours ahead.

….

As Jack sat behind the reception desk, his thin body sunk into the cracked vinyl swivel chair, the nearly empty packet of cheese chips between his long, pale fingers, the tedium of the Wednesday afternoon weighed on him like a damp, suffocating blanket. The sun filtered through the gas station’s fogged windows, casting golden rays that danced across the worn checkered linoleum, highlighting the marks of years of footsteps and spills.

The air was thick with the familiar and comforting—or at least habitual—smell of reheated coffee, diesel evaporating from the hot asphalt outside, and the slight artificial sweetness of the donuts in the display case. Each crunchy bite of the pastries echoed in the relative silence of the shop, a small stolen pleasure that alleviated, even if minimally, the exhausting emptiness of yet another endless shift.

Suddenly, the sound of heavy footsteps from the back broke the monotony. Mr. Harlan emerged from the narrow hallway, wearing a worn brown coat over his flannel shirt and a gray beret tilted on his head, partially covering his thinning white hair. His thick, gray mustache twitched as he chewed the last bit of an unlit cigarette. He stopped before the counter, his tired but authoritative eyes fixed on the tall, slender young man.

“I’m leaving, kid,” he announced in a hoarse voice, heavy with years of smoking. “I won’t be back until tomorrow morning. Stay here until Carlos arrives. Don’t leave before then, understand? And remember: no nonsense.”

Jack looked up, wiping the crumbs of chips from his hands on his worn jeans before replying in the resigned tone of someone who had heard it dozens of times before.

Yes, sir. If any problems arise, I’ll call you. And if someone tries to rob me, I’ll grab the baseball bat that’s under the counter and hit him over the head.

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 merrily behind him. Jack watched from the window as the boss walked to the old pickup truck parked beside the gas pumps, the engine coughing 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, deeper now.

A subtle smile curved Jack’s lips. Every time Mr. Harlan left, that window of forbidden freedom appeared. The old man hated television being on during work hours—he said it distracted the employees and scared away the customers. Any sound of a program was cause for an immediate scolding, leaving the office like a hurricane. But now, with the boss gone, Jack wasted no time. He rose from his chair, which creaked in protest, and walked to the small, old TV set mounted on the wall behind the counter. He turned it on with the worn remote, the cathode ray tube taking a few seconds to warm up with a familiar hum.

Strangely, channel 7 was broadcasting what appeared 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 to the sky. Jack tilted his head, chewing the last of his snacks as he settled back into his chair. I haven’t seen that movie. It must be some B-movie, cheap streaming garbage. It was comfortable enough to fill the boredom—visual and auditory noise better than the oppressive silence.

The journalist’s voice cut through the air, deep and urgent, laden with palpable tension:

This is Channel 7 with an urgent report live 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 on the loose. Watch the live images…

The helicopter camera shook violently, capturing destruction on a terrifying scale. In the middle of the main avenue, a middle-aged white man, his eyes gleaming with an 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 imagined smell of ozone and burnt metal almost seemed to reach the store through the screen.

“The individual has already been identified as Fred Nelson,” the journalist continued, his voice faltering slightly from adrenaline and evident fear. “He worked as an assistant at a local tire shop. He has a wife and a young son. His behavior is completely unusual, with no history of violence or known powers. This doesn’t make sense… My God, look at the scale of this destruction…”

Suddenly, the reporter’s tone changed. His voice, once professional, now carried a raw, visceral terror. He choked, the microphone picking up his rapid breathing.

— He… he’s looking at us! Straight 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 bolt of pure fury. The impact struck the helicopter with a deafening bang. The image shook violently, spiraling as alarms blared. Muffled screams from the pilot and the journalist filled the audio. Then, the transmission cut abruptly, the screen flickering before returning to the studio.

At the anchors’ counter, the presenter — a middle-aged woman with impeccable makeup but wide eyes — tried to maintain her composure, her voice trembling with genuine emotion:

— 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 brave journalists who risked everything to bring us these images. We pray that a hero arrives soon and saves our citizens. May God protect everyone down there. We’ll be back shortly with more updates.

Jack blinked, confused, the remote control still in his hand. What kind of B-movie is this? The gravity in the journalists’ voices, the real panic, the way the helicopter was shot down live… it seemed too real for a low-budget production.

The sharp jingle of the front door bell made him act on instinct. With a swift movement, Jack switched off the TV, the cathode ray tube going dark with a click. He straightened in his chair, adopting a neutral, professional expression as an elderly man entered the store. The man wore a beret similar to Mr. Harlan’s, a thick wool vest over his faded dress shirt, khaki trousers, and worn shoes. He walked slowly, with the slightly stooped posture typical of old age, exploring the shelves with curious eyes.

Jack recognized him immediately—one of the boss’s old friends, the kind who regularly showed up to chat about the old days, complain about the price of gas, and buy tobacco. The old man was harmless, the type who would spend half an hour choosing a newspaper and talking about the weather. Okay, let’s turn the television back on , Jack thought, relaxing his narrow shoulders. He’ll never snitch. And if he does… well, tough luck.

With a quick glance at the door, Jack turned the TV back on, lowering the volume just enough to follow along without drawing too much attention. The old man murmured a friendly greeting, then headed down the cigarette aisle. Jack returned his attention to the screen, his mind still processing the surreal scene he had just witnessed.

Jack chewed the last crumb of his snack, his eyes fixed on the TV, his heart slowly racing with a mixture of curiosity, fear, and an inexplicable spark of excitement.

The shift was still far from over.