SWNOVELXO Chapter 1: CHAPTER 1: THE END OF AN ERA, THE BEGINNING OF A… SITCOM?
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CHAPTER 1: THE END OF AN ERA, THE BEGINNING OF A… SITCOM?
The flickering fluorescent light of the breakroom cast a sickly yellow glow on the last slice of lukewarm pizza. Adam Stiels, 24, with a posture that suggested a lifelong commitment to slouching and a grin perpetually teetering on the edge of "I know something you don't," was contemplating the existential dread of a Monday morning, which, in his case, usually involved deciphering the latest cryptic voicemail from his mother about why he absolutely, positively had to find a "nice, sensible girl with a good pension plan."
" Seriously, what's up with that last slice? Is it mocking me? Is it judging my life choices? Because, honestly, Mr. Pepperoni, you're looking a little dry yourself. "
Adam wasn't exactly living the dream. His apartment, a monument to takeout containers and forgotten laundry, hummed with the faint, comforting drone of Seinfeld reruns. His job, "Junior Data Entry Specialist" (which mostly involved convincing a stubborn printer that, yes, he really did want 50 copies of the quarterly report, and no, he didn't care if it was out of magenta ink), was the kind of soul-crushing gig that made you question the very fabric of existence. His social life? Well, it mostly revolved around the complex emotional journey of whether to rewatch Parks and Rec for the fifth time or finally dive into Community. He was, to put it mildly, a connoisseur of the fictional. He knew the intricate lore of the Fonz, the preferred brand of mustard for Leslie Knope, and the exact number of times Barney Stinson had referenced his "legen—wait for it—dary" status. These characters were more real to him than most of his actual acquaintances. They were his comfort food, his escape, his very DNA.
" I mean, who needs real friends when you've got a thousand hours of well-written, perfectly timed comedic genius to binge? It's less messy, and no one ever asks you to help them move. "
His phone buzzed. It was Gary from accounting. Adam suppressed a groan. Gary, bless his beige-khaki-wearing heart, was currently embroiled in a deeply fascinating (to Gary) debate about the optimal tax write-off for stapler purchases. Adam had politely, or perhaps less politely, suggested he consult a qualified professional. Gary, however, seemed to prefer Adam's unenthusiastic grunts of agreement.
"Hey, Adam, about that Q3 report… I was thinking, if we categorize the paperclips as 'office supplies – minor consumables' instead of 'general overhead,' we could potentially shave off… are you even listening?" Gary's voice crackled through the phone, a perfect audio representation of a spreadsheet.
Adam sighed, dramatically, into the receiver. "Gary, my man, with all due respect, if I hear the word 'synergy' one more time, I'm going to commit a white-collar crime. And it won't be tax fraud, it'll be something involving your ergonomic keyboard and a high-velocity projectile."
Gary, thankfully, had the emotional intelligence of a damp sponge, so the sarcasm sailed right over his head. "Right, right, focus! So, paperclips. Your thoughts?"
Adam was about to launch into a truly spectacular monologue about the inherent futility of corporate bureaucracy, when a sudden, blinding flash of light erupted from the corner of the breakroom. It wasn't just bright; it was the kind of bright that made your eyeballs feel like they were trying to escape your skull and swim to a happier place. A high-pitched, almost musical hum vibrated through the floor, making the forgotten pizza slice dance a little jig.
" Well, that's new. Is HR finally installing that 'motivational' light therapy booth? Because if it cures my Gary-induced headaches, I'm all for it. "
Before he could even register the absurdity, a force, unseen and utterly overwhelming, slammed into him. It felt like being hit by a really enthusiastic, very large, and surprisingly sparkly truck. The air was sucked from his lungs, his vision swam with a kaleidoscope of colors – blues, greens, yellows, a particularly aggressive magenta that reminded him of Gary's ink cartridge woes.
And then, nothing.
Absolute, profound, terrifying nothingness. No sounds, no sights, no smells. Just the echoes of Gary's voice, fading into the abyss, still probably debating paperclip classifications. Adam, for a brief, horrifying moment, wondered if this was it. Was this the grand finale of Adam Stiels, sitcom whisperer and master of the sarcastic quip? To die in a breakroom, contemplating the tax implications of office supplies? It felt… anticlimactic. Like a sitcom getting cancelled on a cliffhanger, but instead of "Will Ross and Rachel finally get together?" it was "Will Adam ever escape the clutches of Gary's Excel spreadsheets?"
" Seriously, if this is the afterlife, and Gary's here, I'm going to demand a refund. Or at least a better view than a perpetual breakroom. "
Then, a voice. Not Gary's. This voice was… different. It was deep, resonant, and sounded like a slightly exasperated celestial being.
["INITIATING RECALIBRATION. SUBJECT: ADAM STIELS. PREVIOUS EXISTENCE: EARTH-PRIME, DIMENSION B-7. DEATH CAUSE: INTERDIMENSIONAL ANOMALY – UNFORESEEN QUANTUM FLUCTUATION. NEW EXISTENCE: SITCOMVERSE HUB, DIMENSION C-9. TRANSFER PROTOCOL: COMPLETE."]
Adam's consciousness, or what was left of it, felt like a confused cat being shoved into a carrier. Sitcomverse Hub? Interdimensional Anomaly? Was this some elaborate dream brought on by too much caffeine and a particularly bad episode of Two Broke Girls?
" Okay, either I'm having the most vivid fever dream of all time, or someone accidentally put the 'reality' setting on 'chaos.'"
["WELCOME, ADAM STIELS, TO THE PLOTS SYSTEM."]
Suddenly, information flooded his mind, not like a torrent, but like a perfectly organized, color-coded binder. He knew things. So many things. He knew the intricate molecular structure of string theory, the nuances of forensic analysis, the history of every significant Supreme Court ruling, and the optimal temperature for a truly magnificent soufflé. It was like his brain had been upgraded from a dial-up modem to a supercomputer in a nanosecond. And along with the knowledge, came the… memories? No, not memories. Files. Files of entire lives. Lives he had watched, laughed at, cried with.
The Big Bang Theory. How I Met Your Mother. Brooklyn Nine-Nine. Modern Family.
They weren't just shows anymore. They were… real. Or, at least, as real as he was now. And the year was 2010.
A new wave of data washed over him. Ownership. He owned something. A building. A big building. In Manhattan. And on the ground floor… MacLaren's Pub. His brain, still reeling from the cosmic kick in the pants, did a quick mental calculation. MacLaren's Pub. The legendary bar where Ted, Marshall, Lily, Barney, and Robin had spent countless hours lamenting their life choices, celebrating their triumphs, and just generally being awesome. And above it? Apartments. Lots of apartments. He didn't even have to check the new "files" in his brain to know who lived there. The gang from HIMYM, obviously. And the TBBT gang too? That was… an interesting twist.
" Wait a minute. I own MacLaren's? And the apartments above it? So I'm not just a tenant, I'm the benevolent overlord of sitcom real estate? This is either the greatest dream ever or I've accidentally stumbled into a very niche, very well-funded cult. "
He felt a strange lightness, a sensation of being untethered, yet simultaneously anchored to something profoundly solid. His body, which moments ago had been contemplating the fate of a stale pepperoni, was now… different. He didn't feel the perpetual crick in his neck, the slight dull ache from sitting in a poorly designed office chair. He felt… effortlessly put-together. He instinctively ran a hand over himself. Jeans. Henley shirt. And was that a well-fitted blazer? A blazer? He hadn't worn a blazer since his cousin's wedding where he'd mistaken the hors d'oeuvres for the main course.
And then, the visuals kicked in.
It wasn't a breakroom. It was… a penthouse. A sprawling, ridiculously luxurious penthouse with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a shimmering cityscape that could only be Manhattan. The kind of place in movies where the hero broods dramatically while sipping single malt scotch. There was a ridiculously comfortable-looking sofa, a sleek, minimalist kitchen that probably cost more than his entire life savings, and a bookshelf laden with books. Real books. Not just the self-help variety he usually gravitated towards, but dense tomes on theoretical physics, forensic science, and… a complete collection of Doogie Howser, M.D. on Blu-ray.
He blinked. Doogie Howser? Really? The system had a sense of humor. Or maybe it just knew his deepest, nerdiest desires.
He walked over to the window, his movements fluid and natural. The city stretched out before him, a glittering tapestry of lights and towering buildings. He could practically pinpoint the locations of all his favorite fictional hangouts. Central Perk (okay, wrong show, but still a New York institution in his mind), the Geller-Bing apartment, the various haunts of Carrie Bradshaw and her shoe collection. And somewhere, not too far away, presumably the hallowed halls of Caltech-NYC and the wonderfully chaotic 99th Precinct.
" Okay, Stiels. Deep breaths. You're not dead. You're… transmogrified. Into the ultimate sitcom fanfic. This is like getting hit by a truck full of glitter and then waking up as the main character of your favorite crossover episode. Which, to be fair, is a significant upgrade from arguing with Gary about paperclips. "
He became aware of a faint glow emanating from his periphery. It was a translucent, almost holographic screen, shimmering softly in his field of vision. The "Plots System" interface.
["INITIAL GIFT PACKAGE GRANTED: PHD IN STRING THEORY, PHD IN FORENSIC SCIENCE. LEGAL INTEGRATION COMPLETE. ASSET TRANSFER: MACLAREN'S PUB & RELATED PROPERTIES – DEED AND FINANCIAL RECORDS VERIFIED. REWARD: IMMENSE POTENTIAL FOR COMEDIC CHAOS."]
He blinked again. Two PhDs? Instantly? And ownership of the building? This was… a lot. His brain, already buzzing with new information, felt like it was trying to download the entire internet through a straw.
He stared at the words "IMMEDIATE GOAL: INTEGRATE INTO NEW ENVIRONMENT. SUBTLE INTERVENTION RECOMMENDED." And below that, a blinking notification.
["UPCOMING PLOT ALERT: 'THE LUMINOUS FISH EFFECT' – SHELDON COOPER'S EPIPHANY."]
Sheldon Cooper. Right. The King of Annoying Brilliance. And "The Luminous Fish Effect," which, if his newly downloaded encyclopedic knowledge of sitcoms served him correctly, was the episode where Sheldon nearly loses his mind because he can't find a suitable problem to work on.
" Oh, joy. My first official mission in this brave new world is to babysit a grown man having an existential crisis over glowing fish. This is going to be legen—wait for it—dary. "
A wry smile touched his lips. He was Adam Stiels, 24, now with two PhDs, a swanky penthouse, and a whole universe of sitcom characters to annoy, befriend, and occasionally save from themselves. He still missed pizza, but something told him this new life would offer far more interesting toppings. And probably fewer lectures about tax write-offs from Gary. Thank whatever cosmic anomaly had sent him here for that. He had a feeling his sarcastic quips were about to get a serious workout.
" Alright, Sitcomverse, let's see what kind of mischief we can get into. Just try not to break too many fourth walls, alright? We're going for subtle here.ish. "