𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐊𝐎𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 ( original story )

i.︱a not-so-heroic exit

╔═════════ ༻ ‧₊˚ 𖣠 : ❁ : 𖣠 ‧₊˚ ༺ ═════════╗

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✩‧₊˚ ❛ 𝓓𝙴𝐀𝖣 𝓡𝙴𝙲𝐊𝐎𝖭𝖨𝖭𝓖  ❜ ✩‧₊˚

》 ‹ 01: a not-so-heroic exit

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╚═════════ ༻ ‧₊˚ 𖣠 : ❁ : 𖣠 ‧₊˚ ༺ ═════════╝

☽ ➶ ｡˚ —— ❝ imagine a place with tall buildings, metal boxes on wheels, and... vending machines... ❞

——— (( 𖠄 )) ———

The vending machine was Rory's final foe.

It stood ominously in the fluorescent-lit hallway, the hum of its mechanisms barely audible over the droning announcements from the school's crackling intercom. Rory Haywood, eighteen years old and perpetually unlucky, glared at it as though her sheer willpower could coax it into submission. It didn't help that her weapon of choice—a crumpled dollar bill—looked as ineffective as she felt.

She smoothed the bill across her thigh, muttering under her breath, "You're my last shot today, you overpriced snack prison. Work with me."

The machine, predictably, didn't respond. Its LED display blinked a cheerful "INSERT BILL," which felt more mocking than instructional. Rory fed the bill into the slot, holding her breath. For a moment, it seemed to work—the machine pulled the bill in, paused, then spat it back out with all the contempt of a bouncer rejecting a fake ID.

"Unbelievable," Rory groaned, jamming the bill back into her pocket. She didn't have time for this. Between her double shift at the café, her dying phone, and a catastrophic math test she was pretty sure had been invented as a form of legalized torture, today had already won the "Worst Day Ever" award.

She glanced down the deserted hallway, half expecting a teacher or janitor to appear and scold her for loitering. The coast was clear. That's when she decided: desperate times called for desperate measures.

With a furtive glance over her shoulder, Rory delivered a sharp kick to the vending machine. The clang echoed like a gunshot. Emboldened, she kicked again, harder. "Give me my chips, you soulless metal box!"

The machine groaned, an ominous creak that sent a chill racing up her spine. Rory stepped back, her bravado crumbling as the hulking apparatus lurched forward. For a split second, she thought it might settle, but the machine teetered once more—then came crashing down.

There was no time to react, no chance to dodge. Just a fleeting, incredulous thought as it bore down on her: Seriously? Death by vending machine?

When Rory opened her eyes, the fluorescent lights were gone. So was the vending machine, and for that matter, the entire concept of earthly existence. Instead, she stood on a cobblestone path that led to an ornate gate towering above her. It was the kind of gate that belonged in an epic fantasy novel—intricately carved with swirling patterns that shimmered faintly, as if lit from within. Beyond it stretched an endless expanse of shifting skies, painted in colors she couldn't name. It was unsettlingly beautiful, the kind of beauty that whispered, You don't belong here.

"Well," she muttered, rubbing her head, "either I've died, or I've finally snapped and landed in one of those weird dreams where nothing makes sense."

"Died," came a smooth, melodic voice. "Quite spectacularly, I might add."