Chapter Two: A Shopping Cart, Three Universes, and Slightly Angry Custard
Simon had never considered himself an intergalactic problem solver. He had, however, been exceptionally good at losing things—keys, socks, dignity—so in retrospect, the Universe’s User Manual seemed like just another misplaced item.
Doug, on the other hand, had the kind of confidence that suggested either decades of experience or an unhealthy familiarity with cosmic insurance claims. He arrived at Simon’s apartment carrying nothing except a backpack that seemed to hum faintly and a shopping cart that looked suspiciously new for a multidimensional chase.
“Trust me,” Doug said, patting the cart. “You’ll need this. Manual retrieval involves a lot of heavy lifting, sudden bursts of existential dread, and possibly some very awkward conversations with planets.”
Simon stared at the cart. “You think a shopping cart is… necessary?”
Doug ignored him. “Do you have a notebook?”
“I… yes.” Simon held up the same notebook labeled Things That Probably Shouldn’t Be in My Apartment.
“Good. Start writing everything down. Every odd sensation, every strange smell, and especially any instances of sentient custard. We’ll need a record for the Incident Report Filing Authority for Misplaced Universal Artifacts.”
Simon paused. “Wait… you made that up.”
Doug shook his head solemnly. “Partially. But mostly real. Bureaucracies of this level tend to be... confusingly literal.”
They left the apartment, Simon pushing the cart with an air of reluctant obedience while Doug navigated them through the streets of London. Oddly, no one seemed to notice the giant shopping cart following them or the faint cosmic hum emanating from Doug’s backpack. Simon assumed Montreal had either adapted to strange phenomena or simply given up.
After twenty minutes, they reached the Bonaventure Hotel rooftop pool, the site of Simon’s—or, technically, someone else’s—first encounter with the misplaced manual. The rooftop looked perfectly normal: a few puddles, some lounge chairs, and a maintenance worker humming a tune suspiciously like the theme of Jeopardy.
“See?” Doug whispered. “Nothing. Safe. Harmless. Not the manual.”
Simon squinted. “How do you know?”
Doug grinned. “Because the universe screams when it’s around. And listen.” He paused. A faint, melodious hum began vibrating in the air. Not unpleasant, but definitely wrong.
“Wrong how?” Simon asked nervously.
“You’ll know,” Doug said, producing a small, silver device that looked like a cross between a metronome and a waffle iron. He pressed a button. The device let out a series of high-pitched clicks, then beeped insistently.
The hum intensified.
Simon’s stomach twisted. “Is that…?”
“Exactly. The manual. Somewhere nearby. Probably watching us, judging us, and hoping we trip over a banana peel so it can finish its coffee in peace.”
At that moment, a small orb of light, roughly the size of a grapefruit but radiating way too much intelligence for its size, floated down from the sky and hovered above the pool. It blinked at them in a pattern that Simon swore resembled Morse code spelling out: “You’re late.”
Doug’s face was unreadable. Then he smiled. “Welcome to Chapter Two, Simon. We’re officially in the retrieval stage.”
Simon swallowed. “Retrieval stage?”
Doug patted him on the shoulder. “Yep. And if we’re lucky, the manual won’t spontaneously turn this city into custard before we get it back.”
Simon stared at the orb. It blinked again. He blinked back. Somewhere in the distance, a star winked. And Simon realized that “lucky” might not actually be in the plan.
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