The last message hit me in the gut, instantly dampening my enthusiasm. I'd only gotten a paltry 10 OP from the cranes. Ten! I'd already been preparing for a meditative grind, like in that fairy tale about a thousand cranes for the sake of a wish... Ah, there wouldn't be any easy paths for me. The note about "simple" origami clearly hinted at that. Therefore, if I did something more serious, there was a chance to start farming OP again.
After browsing a few websites and video tutorials, I regretfully concluded: my skills were definitely not enough to create a hypothetical elephant, much less a dragon, whose patterns required hundreds of steps with terrifying words like "bird base," "reverse folds," "rabbit ear," "wet folding." It was some kind of higher mathematics, not handicrafts.
But a solution was found—modular origami. The most obvious option was a Kusudama, a paper ball. The "Electra" Kusudama, according to the guides, required 30 identical modules. The complexity of each module was slightly higher than that of the crane, but their combination should produce the desired result.
I tore another sheet of paper from the notebook and set to work. And then I ran into a problem. My fingers, accustomed to rough work and heavy tool handles, felt like clumsy sausages. I cursed when, once again, I couldn't make a neat, clean fold. I, a man who could assemble a furniture panel or carve a perfect table leg with my eyes closed, couldn't handle a lousy piece of paper! Absurd!
Somehow, after ruining a couple of sheets and frustrating myself, I finally got the hang of it. It would take about half an hour to create one Kusudama. There was just one more problem: I was rapidly running out of sheets in my notebook. I'd have to go to the store.
Rummaging through my pockets and drawers, I scraped together a couple of crumpled dollars and a handful of change. Not much. The nearest 24-hour store greeted me with the smell of cheap coffee and disinfectant. Under the indifferent gaze of the Indian cashier, I selected the plainest ream of office paper. Walking back along the deserted night streets of Hell's Kitchen, I felt like a complete idiot. I hadn't risked going outside to throw out the trash, but I had risked it to buy paper. It would be funny if that came back to haunt me (just kidding)...
Hell's Kitchen was a completely different place at night. It shed its typical low-income neighborhood façade and revealed its true colors. From a dark alley came the sound of an overturned trash can and the angry hiss of a cat. On the corner, beneath the blinking neon sign of Joe's Pizza, stood a group of guys in baggy clothes. They weren't doing anything illegal, just smoking and chatting quietly, but they exuded an aura of menace. I quickened my pace, trying not to make eye contact. In this world, one sideways glance could be enough to land a knife in the ribs.
The air was thick and humid, smelling of stale garbage, cheap all-night food, and exhaust fumes. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed once again—the indispensable soundtrack of this city, and this neighborhood in particular. I suddenly realized my vulnerability. In my old body, I was no Hercules, but I could take care of myself. Ten years of physical labor had taken their toll. Now, I was in the body of a frail college student who, judging by his memories, had last gotten into a fight in middle school—and that hadn't been a success.
Any one of those guys on the corner could break me in half. And no Devil of Hell's Kitchen would come to my aid. Matt Murdock might be something of a hero, but he wasn't all-seeing or all-powerful. He dealt with gangs and murderers, not with every idiot who decided to take a stroll through the neighborhood at night. That walk sobered me up better than any cold shower. I needed more than just "technology" from the System. I needed power. Or at least something to help me protect this fragile new life.
Returning to the apartment, I set to work with renewed zeal. Forty minutes of concentration, gritting my teeth, and quietly cursing, and the first Kusudama was ready. It was a little lopsided, but recognizable.
[Artwork created: Origami. Difficulty: Medium. Received +3 OP!]
Excellent! The medium difficulty was counted, and the reward was a nice bonus. While I could have made more cranes in the same time, the main thing was that OP farming had gotten off the ground.
Glancing at the clock—two in the morning—I realized what I'd be doing next. College. Thursday, a school day... As much as I considered it a waste of time, it could be a source of information. Mary Jane Watson studied there, and Harry Osborn was probably coming to pick her up. These weren't just extras anymore, but key figures. So, a visit to college was worth it. And now—the grind!
The next hours passed in a blur. My hands folded modules, joining them into finished balls. To keep from going crazy from the monotony, I turned on the Daily Bugle news channel on my laptop. I got so used to it that a single Kusudama took no more than twenty minutes. I had ten assembled by half past five in the morning. But the eleventh ball greeted me with another unpleasant surprise:
[Artwork created: Origami. Difficulty: Medium. Received +1 OP!][Warning! The OP limit for medium-difficulty Origami creation has been partially reached! The next 9 pieces will each award +1 OP.]
So, now I had 10 + (10 × 3) + 1 = 41 OP. And I could squeeze another 9 points out of these paper balls. That's 50. Exactly halfway there. Not so bad. Besides, the modules could be completed during classes at college.
Collapsing onto the couch, before drifting off to sleep for the second time in these frantic 24 hours, I paused to reflect. My life hadn't just been turned upside down—it had been completely remade. The Marvel Universe, a strange, not-so-generous System, a new body... Remembering my old, measured life, I felt a pang of longing. There, I created things you could touch, things that served people. A sturdy table. A reliable roof. Tangible, real results. And here? I created fragile paper crafts for ephemeral points, to obtain an unknown "technology."
There was a cruel irony in this. As if I'd traded true craftsmanship for a video game with a dubious prize.
But even so, before worrying about the great creations and dangers posed by World Eaters, I needed to survive tomorrow in this cardboard box in the most dangerous part of the city. And that thought, here and now, was far more sobering than any Galactus.
I prayed to all the gods—who here, unlike in my world, were not just empty words—that this version turned out to be, well... at least not the one where everyone was doomed to annihilation.
With these faintly hopeful thoughts, I finally fell asleep, anticipating a new day.